


It's Always Been You

by CalcifersFireplace



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of angsty, Memory Loss, Rebecca Chambers MVP, Slow Burn, as much as possible, eventual resident evil typical shenanigans, medical related body horror, post RE5, the Redfield siblings being their usual selves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalcifersFireplace/pseuds/CalcifersFireplace
Summary: After her return to the B.S.A.A. from the Uroboros ordeal, news of Jill Valentine has been scarce.Until almost a year later she breaks into Chris Redfield's apartment with no memories and suffering from periods of violent blackouts.Has someone been continuing Albert Wesker's research?
Relationships: Chris Redfield/Jill Valentine
Comments: 15
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

She's not sure where she is. She knows how she got to where she is, physically in the space- she can remember picking the locks, but the why, the where she came from and more alarmingly the _who_ are all a glowing white empty in a head that feels like glass. She's someone who can pick locks, seems like an important thing to note. Someone who can do so with one terribly hurt shoulder says something too, but as the panicked confusion grows she's realizing she doesn't know anything about her own identity and the gaping maw of what that might mean is terrifying. 

Why she's injured breaking into someone's first floor apartment almost completely out of breath after clearly running from something is as missing as the rest. All she'd like to do right now is sit down and cry like a child. She doesn't really know what kind of person she is but she'd like to think that she might be level headed enough to figure this out calmly. 

A quick check of the small apartment shows a kitchenette that's clean and looks moderately well used, well worn couch with a rather clunky outdated television and a hallway leading to presumably a bedroom. It's sparse to say the least; this stranger providing little in the way of decorating has left the place feeling half lived in. Above the fake fireplace on a thin mantle there's a picture in a small wooden frame, and hey, it might give the slightest bit of insight into the owner and why she came here so she'll take it. 

In it, a pretty woman with reddish brown hair is smiling up at a dark haired man. The woman is mid-laugh and it lights up her face in a way that makes people want to smile with her, while the man is more subdued, looking down at her with a smaller smile. He's military, or some equivalent- the blurry chain around his neck look like dog tags and he's built like a tank, which adds substance to the hunch that he's served. Touching the glass on the frame, she grimaces in frustration. These people, strangers maybe, feel like they should be someone to her but no names come up when she looks at them. Well, she has no name for herself currently either so she shouldn't be too surprised. 

She sets down the picture and moves on. _Maybe a mirror_. It has to help. It has to. And if she's telling herself lies to cope she's not going to fight it.

The ache in her shoulder is growing steadily more poignant as she feels her way down the wall for the light switch. It's a demanding sort of pain but it feels as if part of herself is compartmentalizing it, like a routinely practiced response to pain. It only adds to her fear and curiosity of who the hell she is. The bathroom light flickers on as the attached fan roars to life. It’s uncomfortably loud but she ignores it, bracing herself to face her reflection. 

As far as reflections go she doesn't feel as if it'd be vain to say the person in the mirror is pretty. Late twenties, maybe early thirties with big, pale blue eyes shadowed by prominent yet delicate bone structure. Her hair is a too-pale shade of blonde and in her quickly forming opinion- not her color, which surprises her. Why it shouldn't be that color she can’t say, but it makes her uneasy to see the pale color there around her shoulders. The rest of her is as much as it feels: lightly muscular, a little too thin, and not incredibly tall, but she can see an assuredness in her stance that makes her feel confident in her own fairly unknown abilities. Unfortunately facing her reflection didn’t spark anything in her like she’d hoped it would. She looks like she's been on the run, as she’d felt, but from what or who is unclear. Upon further inspection she's surprised to find that _she_ might be military, or something along those lines based on the simple uniform-like clothing. The pale fabric of her shirt is dirty like she’s rolled around in mud and grass.

_Okay. There's at least some things I know, compile them, and figure this out. Who ARE you?!_

_I can pick locks._

_I might be some sort of trained officer._

_I came here, to another officer's house._

_I'm injured._

_I must have come here to seek help._

  
  


There's no more time to ponder on it though because apparently this apartment isn't empty; there's the barking of what sounds to be a not-so-small dog coming from the one bedroom. The low echoing bark mixed with the droning of the fan and bright overhead light is doing something to her. Suddenly thinking begins to feel like trudging through thick mud or snow and the sensation numbs the rest of her body. Outside of almost needle-like pain in the center of her chest, she can feel nothing but the thrumming in her ears. Clasping her hands over them, she stumbles out of the tiny bathroom. She can come back later if it's really so important-

Her nose hits canvas first and the rest of her collides with a wall of mass before she can stop her own momentum. She would gasp, but the cold press of rounded metal to her temple stops her breath and she freezes so completely it might be that she's also turned to metal. She can't look up- can't focus: the fan, the barking, someone's heavy breathing, is building and she is riding that build up and away from herself. She can’t breathe, the air in her lungs a sharp pressure, _it's unbearable, it has to stop_ , until she feels the sensation of falling and then nothing else.

-

"Jill." 

Something is moving her face.

Ah, there's her face.

The feeling of weightlessness is fading and finding her way back to her body is becoming easier and easier. What's moving her face is a hand, a big hand with a calloused palm and fingertips that smell of an oil that she must know the name of, but like a lot of things it currently escapes her. The hand is gentle though, despite the callouses, and warm. Not something to be frightened by, to be sure. She could almost smile. 

The rest of her doesn't come to so peacefully though, the ache in her shoulder has developed firmly into a throb and no longer able to be ignored, especially as her arms seem to be suspended above her, and the wrists sure feel like they're restrained, so no more gentle hands on her face to enjoy. She needs to be awake and aware _now._

Her eyes fly open and roll wildly, trying to focus as her breath accelerates to accommodate the rush of fight or flight coursing through her. When they do focus, the man from the photograph is in front of her in an easy crouch and everything about him is screaming _dangerous._ A thick green kevlar vest over a short sleeved white shirt, a silver chain glinting at the neck. Attached to the vest is an obscene amount of ammunition (to which if she were less panicked she'd be puzzled to know she knew the names of), a large knife in a holster next to an equally alarming gun holstered on his left hip and an intimidating handgun held loosely in his right hand. If she were a little saner, or at least thinking clearer she wouldn't try it, but with all the disoriented thoughts jumbling chaotically in her head she tries something stupid. To kick him in the face. 

He blocks it with disheartening speed, knocking away her ankle as easily as someone swats a fly. To add to panic, disorientation, and now slight embarrassment, the movement has tugged on her shoulder hard. Hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and a gasp of pain as it rips up her left arm with enough intensity to cause her to pull herself as close to fetal as she can get. Biting back sobs, she almost misses his next words.

"Jill? Jill Valentine? Can you understand me?" His voice is deep, almost a low rumble in his chest, as if he isn’t used to talking in a lower volume. There’s something behind his words she can’t place, but the words themselves make no sense. Clearly he thinks her name is Jill Valentine, and he knows her, but why would he think she doesn’t understand him? 

"Jill, it's me, Chris Redfield. We were…. partners. Do you know where you are?" There _is_ something behind his words: pain. Deep enough that it seems as if he can barely contain it, the word ' _partners'_ having a weight all it's own. It resonates with her in a confusing way. 

"No." The word escapes as a hiss from her throat and she feels a flicker of surprise at her own voice. To her, it sounds desperate, like a kitten that hisses at you even though it's shaking, and if she were being honest that's completely how she feels. Scared, vulnerable and confused. His face pulls on an expression that feels like a mask, features hardening into false neutrality at the sound of her voice. Hiding something. 

_Chris Redfield. Jill Valentine. Redfield. Chris…_

The names swirl together in a strange pattern. They sound right. They sound right together, even stranger. The hint of something she should know to her core flickers at the back of her consciousness, frustrating in it's intangibility. The ghost of a feeling lingering. 

It feels like a bad idea to show weakness in the current situation, but the feeling of wanting to cry like a toddler lost in a grocery store has come back, more demanding than before. 

" _Who_ am _I_?" The tears threatening to spill do so at her admittance, the broken whisper feeling too loud. She struggles to wipe her eyes on her right arm, trying not to jostle the left. The tears won't stop though, and the tears turn to sobs and she can't catch her breath, chest heaving irregularly with hiccupping sobs. She hears the sound of him swallowing, a thick sound followed by him clearing his throat. A moment passes, then two as she tries and fails to contain herself. Rustling fabric and the shift of his presence into her space pulls her attention but has a hard time keeping it. The tears just keep coming. She flinches at the hand that comes towards her face again, watches it pause before continuing its trajectory towards wiping the tears from her cheek. It's incredibly gentle for someone his size, making her wonder again in a distant sort of way who he is, and who she is to him. 

"I-" A cough, clearing his throat again. "I'd like to un-cuff you, but I want to make sure you won't attack me again. I really don't want to hurt you." She meets his hard stare with a bewildered one of her own, blinking rapidly to clear the tears still coming. Attack him? _Again?_ Who would be stupid enough to try? _Well,_ she grimaces internally, _she was_ \- but that was only one kick, surely not enough to ever pose an actual threat to him. Regardless, she wasn't about to try that again. Shaking her head slightly, she finds her voice again to choke out:

"I? I won't- I don't- I?" A jumbled mess of half questions, too many to ask, too many unknowns. She tries again, "I don't know what you mean." The hiccups are subsiding and she's grateful to feel that she might stop crying soon. 

His dark eyebrows furrow, forming a crease in his mask as he considers her. He's thinking something, but what- she can't read. He stands and tips his head to the side to gesture towards a bedside table. She realizes with a start that she's in the bedroom, registering it way too late. Taking in the scratchy carpet under her and the cold metal of the bed frame against her back it takes a second to understand what it is he wants her to see on the low table. He watches her face intently as she processes a knife laid neatly out on it, still messy with a red stain. She recoils, realizing that it's blood and looks back to him with wide eyes scanning as fast as they can. 

High up on his right bicep, almost covered by his shirt sleeve, is a neatly placed white bandage. 

"You… you think _I_ did _that?"_ She just passed out when she ran into him in the hall, that's _it_. She can't have done that, she was unconscious and sure of it. She didn't even have a knife, she thinks, this must be a trick. With what goal, she doesn't know, and the not knowing sends a jolt of fear shooting through her again. She's alone, injured, and half his size, completely at his mercy. She tries not to let the terror show on her face but one glance at his, she knows she's failed. The mask slips slightly again, his eyes narrowing in what she thinks is concern, with a hint of contemplation. 

He opens his mouth to say something, pauses, then closes it again, the searching look on his face stopping him from whatever he was going to say. He's about to try again when a scratching at the closed door accompanied by a low whine interrupts him. He glances at the door and the reprieve from his eyes is instant and soothing. Short lived though as he quickly glances back at her and sighs, digging into a deep pocket. He crouches again and ignores her cowering with only a small frown. Gently, again, with almost tenderness he uncuffs her left hand and, holding it by the wrist, lowers her arm slowly down against her chest. She holds it there protecting it from further harm, watching warily as he clicks the lock on the other wrist and let's it go. 

Task done, he slides cuffs and key into that same pocket, striding over to the table to collect the knife. He approaches the door without looking at her. Murmuring something under his breath to the door, he opens it carefully, using his knees to corral a dog's face that is trying to worm into the room. Her earlier intuition was right, it is a big dog. A very big dog. The German shepherd shoves uselessly at the man's- Chris' legs, trying to get closer to her in the small space.

"-purnia, _no._ " His voice, quiet enough for her to miss the first syllable but not the fondness in it as he takes the dog's collar in hand to hoist it out of the room. Giving her one more long, searching look before dropping his eyes with a rough "I'll be back soon'" tossed her way, Chris Redfield leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

Taking a few moments to wipe her face, steady her breathing and collect herself, she finally pulls herself together enough to look around. The terror of the unknown, who she is, why she doesn't remember anything, why she came here, what happened to her, who he was, is still rattling around in the back of her skull- ever present but not overwhelming at the moment.  Currently , she seems safe enough and, though he’s intimidating, there doesn’t seem to be any intention from Chris to harm her: at least for now. It isn’t as if she had been kidnapped either, she came here of her own accord after all. Her shoulder is in bad shape though and she hesitates in prodding around to see how bad it is. Probably best not to know for now while her grasp on her emotions and sanity are still so tenuous. 

_ Jill Valentine. _ She rolls the name around in her thoughts then tests it out loud. It sounds foreign but familiar at the same time. So does his name, the feeling of familiarity but not understanding why his name is important frustrating her more than she expects. 

Gingerly, she stands, carefully pulling herself upright but curling slightly forward to protect her left arm as she surveys the room. It’s as sparse as the front room, plain white blinds over the one window and crisp white sheets in rigid military style on the bed. The small walk-in holds nothing particularly interesting: one suit amongst a sea of military grade outfits ranging from high protective to workout fares. A small dresser contains socks and other things, she doesn’t exactly want to rifle through his unmentionables so she abandons it. Soundlessly closing the closet door, she creeps over to the bedside table, ignoring the small lamp in favor of a picture frame that has been placed face down. 

Angling herself towards the door in case it should open she picks it up and feels a sense of trepidation that has no basis in reality- but something about what might be in this picture feels big somehow. Scoffing internally at the superstition, she flips it over. 

_ See _ , she tells herself,  _ it's nothing. _

Like the photo on the mantle, there's two people depicted. Chris, younger here than in current time, jawline less sharp and musculature less defined. He's wearing an outfit not dissimilar to the one she had just seen but the acronym S.T.A.R.S. is emblazoned on the chest of his tactical vest. He looks happy here, bright eyes and a big smile that looks completely at home on his face. His arm is wrapped around a slight, dark haired woman, and while Chris is grinning at the camera, her chin is tilted up at him smiling fondly, dark bluntly cut hair and blue beret obscuring the rest of her features. She's wearing a light blue uniform, clashing against his green but with the same S.T.A.R.S. on her gear. They look happy, very happy, and she wonders why he would keep it down like that, it seems like a good memory. She laughs at herself for her previous 'sixth sense' and sets it back down, careful to place it back exactly where it was.

The two drawers in the table are next and last for her nosing, the top being somewhat of a let down. A notepad and pen, a flashlight, and the only thing of note, a box of handgun rounds. The box says it's for a magnum and her shaky memory pulls forward a picture of an impressive piece, and then slower after it, places it as the gun that was holstered on Chris' belt. It makes her uneasy to think about why he would have these so close to where he sleeps but as her nerves are a bundle of unease currently there's probably not much that could rattle her further.

The second drawer though, is locked. Stymied, she tries to jimmy it open quietly but that's a loud sort of maneuver and abandons it quickly. She fishes around her pocket that she remembers the lock pick was only to find it empty. He must have frisked her while she was unconscious. Giving up,  _ only for now _ , she tells herself, she lowers herself to the floor to peer under the bed. It's spotless, not a dust bunny in sight, clearly this guy is a neat freak. There's a long metal box that she eventually places as a gun locker but leaves it be; she doesn't want anything to do with that right now. 

All that's left is that second drawer. She listens at the doorway to see if she can hear anything, any indication that he's on his way back, but all she can hear is the low sound of the T.V. and maybe someone talking. Retreating back to the table, she sits on the floor beside it, knees pulled up and tapping her toes. She tries not to think about the drawer but it keeps pulling her attention. Maybe it's paranoia, maybe it's just a neurotic result from the tangle of emotions she's felt in the last forty or so minutes, but that solitary drawer is making the back of her neck itch. She tries to think on anything else, but she can't focus for long. She counts until five minutes pass, then ten, trying to keep staring at her boot clad toes tapping against the carpet, eventually deciding to think of nothing instead. But the movement of her feet is causing something to press against her right ankle, something that is definitely not her sock. Having a feeling she knows what it is, she hurriedly takes off the boot, which is no small feat one handed, and claims her prize of a lock pick in triumph. Not bothering to return the shoe to her foot, she scoots so she can get to the lock on the stubborn drawer. Belatedly, she notes that she is right handed ( _ fortunate _ , she thinks, since her left arm is such a mess) and that she's the kind of person to hide lock picks on her person. Closing her eyes, the motions feel second nature as muscle memory kicks in and she listens closely to the sounds until with a satisfying click, the lock has been defeated. 

As sudden as the possession to see what is inside grabbed her, it fades, hesitation setting into its place as she looks at the closed potential Pandora's Box. Suddenly, she's afraid of what might be in there. The superstitious feeling, back of her neck tingling, and a new almost painful sensation in sharp pricks on her chest- giving her pause. Mechanically, she returns the lock pick to its place and sloppily re-laces her boot, barely looking. She has to know, but she's afraid.  _ It's a drawer, _ she thinks objectively,  _ you won't know what's there until you open it and it's better to know than not know, right? _

Feeling foolish, she yanks it open. Then, wincing at the noise, she glances back towards the door, but it doesn't seem like he's coming back just yet. Turning, she anxiously starts to pull objects out to examine. There's a diary. It's locked and seems too feminine to belong to Chris, but maybe she's judging. She sets it down, resolving to come back to it. Next she pulls out a folded wallet, which inside reveals it's actually a badge holder containing an I.D. for one Christopher Redfield. Like the picture on the table, he looks young; they were probably taken around the same time. The date reads 1996, and while she isn't sure on the current date, she's pretty sure the world is well into the 21st century. It reads "RACCOON CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT: SPECIAL UNIT: S.T.A.R.S." and it feels eerily familiar. She lingers on his photo a quick moment, taking in the attempt at stoicism that his older face has mastered much better. 

Curiously, there's a second badge holder, looking to be the same issue and age. She flips it open and freezes. 

_Jillian Valentine._ The name is stamped above a photo of the woman from the photo, finally facing fully to the camera. She has a small, enigmatic smile playing around her mouth, but her pale blue eyes seem calculating, like she's evaluating the photographer. 

It's her. Impossibly, it's her, staring back with the same eyes she saw in the mirror, with a younger face and dark hair. Panic is setting in, making it hard to breathe as she haphazardly digs through the drawer, pulling out pictures and mandates and reports, even a map, all about Jill Valentine. The prickling pain in her chest is loud and so is her shoulder and she feels she might be dying.

Kicking at the table and trying to push herself away on the floor only manages to knock her flat on her back, the pain from her shoulder blinding. She barely notices the door bursting open but does notice the smell of bad breath and the press of a wet nose against her forehead and cheek before Chris pushes the dog away and leans over her. 

The corners of her vision are going blurry, darkness creeping in, and her breathing has only continued to accelerate but when he traps the sides of her face between his palms and orders her to  _ look at him _ . She listens. Somehow, he guides her through some sort of exercise and she can physically feel the panic leaving her body. 

Boneless, she sinks back down into the floor. The panic left exhaustion in its wake, but there is still too much happening to succumb to sleep. Fighting off the fatigue, she waits a few minutes to assure herself that she's alive and relatively okay, staring up at nothing and blinking to clear the two tears that slide down into her hairline. Finally, she rolls her head to the side to look at Chris- he's removed the kevlar -and meets his guarded gaze as he sits against the wall and pets the big dog. 

"I'm Jill Valentine," she states finally.

"Yes," is all he says, unreadable.

“You're Chris Redfield."

"Yep."

She turns her head back to stare at the ceiling. 

"We were close."

"... yeah." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by nicefacepotter <3


	3. Chapter 3

There's only so long two people can stay in stillness after a moment like that. Thankfully, the dog breaks the tension by padding lightly over to her and licking her face. Chris starts to get up, moves to say something to call off the dog but stops when she raises her good hand to pat the side of its face and slides it up to scratch behind its ears. 

"Hello." She murmurs quietly to the good natured face looming over her. Finally getting a good look at it she realizes it's young, probably almost grown but the one floppy ear, too big paws and goofy canine grin clearly state that this is a puppy. 

"Her name’s Calpurnia." 

"Hello, Calpurnia." She continues to scratch behind the ear and almost smiles as Calpurnia settles her weight down to lie next to her. Looping her arm around the canine's mass she continues to lie there too. Listens as he gets to his knees and shuffles over to the mess she made. Hearing the shifting of paper and leather being returned to their well guarded home. He doesn't lock it.

"Should have known you would poke around." He sighs, but doesn't sound angry. "You never could leave things alone."

She takes in this information silently. Waiting, maybe even hoping for him to say more. He doesn't, not about things she wants to hear.

"Your shoulder is dislocated." He says clinically. She nods. Waits, then asks.

"Can you fix it?" 

She can feel his surprise and hear the rush of air as he exhales. Tilts her chin down to see him. He makes eye contact and grimaces.

"Maybe, but it should probably be done by an actual medic." At the word  _ medic _ she feels a strong sense of dread and shakes her head violently,  _ no. _

"Okaaay. We'll come back to why you feel that way later." He sounds tired. "I didn't tell anyone you were here. From the B.S.A.A. I mean. I told Claire." He looks over to her, maybe to see if she recognizes the name, either of them. She does, both, but not enough to understand or associate any face to.

"Were you looking for me? Was I missing? Why do I- I don't look like that anymore. Why? How do I know you aren't involved in what's happened to me?"

He looks hurt, the tiny glimpse she got behind his fake calm reveals that depth of the pain she registered earlier. The mask slams back home in an instant. She thinks of the open face he had in the pictures from his youth and feels a little sad for that boy.

"You can't I guess. Know, I mean. But I'm not. I wouldn't-" he cuts off the rest of the sentence and his jaw clenches, she can see the tick of a nerve there and watches it pulse. He leans back on the bedside table and stares at the floor.

After a long silence finally he starts talking, suddenly, as if he had been talking the whole time.

"You're supposed to be in a lab. Undergoing treatment for what happened in Africa. But you're not, you're a couple thousand miles away. At my house, which you heard the address to _one_ _time_. So you must have been pretty hell bent on getting here." He doesn't break eye contact and neither does she. "But how you got here is unknown. So is how you hurt your shoulder, and you look like hell. You didn't know who you are, I'm not entirely sure you do now- but it's a start. You also didn't know who I was. What I really don't understand is why, if you didn't know anything about either of us, would you come here?" 

She can't think of what to say. It feels as though puzzle pieces are falling into place, but frustratingly slow, the full picture out of reach. Vaguely unsure if all of it was rhetorical anyways she returns her eyes to the popcorn ceiling and asks again.

"Can you fix it. My shoulder." She hates how weak it sounds when she adds, "Please."

He sighs as he stands, saying nothing and when Calpurnia moves to follow him he orders her to stay. She does, but is no longer relaxed, on high alert facing the door he left from. 

-

She knows she's the one that asked, but turning her back to him, left arm hanging out of her half removed button down, shirt sleeve dangling while sitting in a flimsy tank top listening to him repeat instructions to a voice coming through an earpiece, she's suddenly not so sure. 

"Thanks, Beccs, can I keep you on the line in case something goes wrong?" 

He's moved closer and she can hear a chirpy birdlike voice from the other line say "Yes of course Chris, the patient is a smaller woman, relatively in good health? I wish you would send me a live feed so I could help better-" he cuts her off. Jill tries to tune out.

"Sorry, can't. This will have to do." 

She's straddling a chair facing the kitchenette, Calpurnia standing guard by the counter, staring her down. 

A heavy hand comes down on her good shoulder and she flinches reflexively. 

"You ready?" 

She grits her teeth and nods.

"You don't have to look." He advises, relocating his hand to her bad side and gently lifting her arm at the elbow with the other. They both can feel her trembling. 

"Do you want me to count?" She looks up at him and before she can fully say  _ no _ , his arm flexes, the hand on her shoulder squeezing as a brace and the other hand is jerking her arm back towards him. And with a sickening, popping, click, her joint  _ snicks _ back into place.

She screams, or at least she thinks she might have, but she can't hear anything at all. The pounding of her blood in her ears is too loud for anything else, and while the pain in her shoulder is greatly relieved, the odd pain in her breast returns and intensifies. She thinks she might be falling, thinks she might have gasped out a "-Chest!" Before she sinks into black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying for a Tuesday/Thursday posting schedule!   
> I've never done this before though so I hope that's a good one


	4. Chapter 4

“How’d your call go Becca?”

_ Chris sure had to go fast.  _ She looks down at her blackberry, frowning.  _ He can be a pretty taciturn guy sometimes but he’s not usually so vague, or asks me about lab stuff... I wonder who he was helping. _

“Becca? Rebecca- hello? Oh-”

_ Oh shoot. _ When she glances up to apologize she’s facing her superior. Her friend and coworker Alyssa is panicking, trying to gesture subtly towards the bored looking blonde holding out a file. 

“Dr.  Ivanov! I’m so sorry.” Sheepishly she laughs and accepts the file. “I was somewhere else I guess.”   
  


“I see. Well, that isn’t to keep, it’s still classified so it needs to be back on my desk by six.”

“Oh! oh, sure. Of course. Thank you very much, I know it’s a big ask.” When she smiles the doctor doesn’t return it.

“I understand, she’s your friend.” Alex Ivanov waves her off, done with the conversation she turns to leave.

“Oof, she’s so intense.” Alyssa watches the doctor leave in relief. “She’s going to go back to Europe soon right? Couldn’t be soon enough.” 

Walking with Rebecca back to their lab she keeps chatting.   
  


“She’s even higher up than you right? I mean I know you’re technically just an advisor but you’re also former S.T.A.R.S. and a huge part of why this place is running as smoothly as it is, friends with Mr. Burton and Captain Redfield too, are they kind of scary or like action movie cool- okay. I know you’re not listening. Whatcha got there?”

She leans opposite Rebecca on one of the few free tables. 

“Sorry, I was listening, Barry and Chris are actually very nice.” Alyssa snorts in disbelief. “It’s an update on my friend Jill, she’s been in recovery here for a long time and I was wondering how she was doing.” 

“Right, another S.T.A.R.S., God you seem so normal compared to them.” Rebecca frowns slightly, maybe she was different from the Alpha Team survivors but she was still one of the former squad- albeit Bravo Team and a lot younger. Still though, she was scouted by them at eighteen and she’d survived the Umbrella Training School and the Arklay Labs when the rest of Bravo had not. But there’s no point in arguing, it’d just be showing off, and she tries not to brag about her accomplishments. 

“Yeah. I guess so.”

Going over the file things are looking good. It details their process for weaning Jill off of the high dose of P30, even though it is processed by the body very quickly leading Wesker to plant the device into Jill’s chest for a constant dose it still has withdrawal symptoms, including bouts of psychosis. The earlier bit of the report describes violent outbursts but that they’ve faded and Jill is in better spirits, even writing letters to Barry Burton. 

_ I wonder why she hasn’t reached out to me or Chris?  _

There’s a couple pictures paper clipped at the back. Jill during an exam, looking tired as a doctor is examining the sores on her chest. Following it is a close up of the whole wound, it seems to be healing, scabs and new tissue over the puncture holes and the varicose veins surrounding the area seem to be fading almost completely. The last is of Jill in a recovery room, sitting up in bed writing in a journal, smiling slightly at the camera.

They all seem normal but…

“Hey, can you look at these, don’t they seem off somehow?” The wound picture looks too sharp, too clear. Alyssa crosses to her and leans in, tucking a strand of wispy blonde hair behind her ear she combs through each picture. 

“No, not really. They look fine to me, why?”

“I’m not sure. I guess it’s nothing.” But when Alyssa’s back is turned she slips the picture of Jill writing into her coat pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading if you got this far! I really appreciate it  
> Edited by nicefacepotter


	5. Chapter 5

When Jill comes to, it’s pitch black. The space is small and dark and her first response is piercing fear until her grasping hands find cloth and realizes where she is. 

There must be a light, she thinks. Standing and fumbling against the wall rewards her with a light switch. As her eyes adjust she stands in confusion, trying to process her surroundings. It looks like a bomb went off. All of Chris' anally organized clothes are strewn about, half the closet's contents on the floor. 

She's lost her shirt and is left in the thin tank top, but when she glances down to look over herself she  looks at her hands and is  left  horrified. Smears of blood coat her arms like a child's finger painting. Her nails are bloodied, two are cracked, there's a row of evenly spaced puncture holes in her left forearm still bleeding and she's alarmed to realize she can barely feel any of it. Her left shoulder aches though as she turns to the door and, adding to the horror, it looks like an animal very violently tried and failed to escape. She glances over her shoulder to check- but no, she's the only creature in here. Leaving only one conclusion. Somehow, she did all this. 

She moves closer to the door to see if anything can be heard outside it. There’s nothing-- she can't tell if he's there, and while she's still unsure of Chris' place in all this, she's too frightened to care right now and calls out his name. 

There's no answer at first. She tries to tamp down the panic creeping in and knocks against the door, loudly calling:

"Chris? Chris! What's going on-"

Before she can finish, the doorknob turns, the door cracking open an inch as one hazel eye peers in at her, evaluating. She stands in confusion as he decides and finally opens the door all the way. If she wasn't already shell shocked, she would gasp. Along the left side of his face and down his neck, four deep gouges sit red and angry, and when his arm holding the door comes into view she can see a new clean bandage on his forearm. She can only stand there, lost and frightened, wordless. 

He ushers her back out into the room and if he seemed tired earlier he's exhausted now. The window indicates that several hours have passed and it’s dark now. He sits at the edge of the bed and watches her, the closed off expression back in place. He's in casual clothes, for him, she guesses: a tight black shirt and slacks. But his posture is too rigid, too guarded when he looks at her to match his informal appearance. 

She stands palms forward, arms slightly out.

"What is happening to me?"

-

He sits her down on the bathroom toilet without saying anything, turns the tap and waits for it to heat up. The silence isn't exactly uncomfortable, but the words from the bedroom are rattling around her head.

_ "What is happening to me?" _

_ "I have no idea." _

And his face said he meant it. That it made him afraid.

She doesn't start when the warm damp cloth touches her hands, still lost in her own thoughts. She watches his face rather than look at her hands, would rather not think of them honestly. But the reminder of what she's capable of is there on his face too, in the angry lines down his face and the worried crease between his eyebrows. He treats her hands with the same gentleness he's shown her since she broke into his apartment this morning, and the feeling of guilt she has only worsens. Pulling her hands away, she murmurs, 

"You really don't have to do that." He doesn't answer but captures one of her wrists with a hand and continues.

"Please don't." She tries to get it back but the circle of fingers around her wrist tighten slightly in response. 

"Stop." She balls the hand into a fist to force him. He finally makes eye contact and sits on his heels. He doesn't let go of her hand. 

"I-" she blows out her breath in a long exhale, unclear on where to start. "Tell me what happened, all of it. Not just about earlier, everything. What happened to me in Africa." Chris looks pained at the request.

How to be tactful about this? 

"You must mean a great deal to me, and I think it's mutual, but right now I'm the lunatic who broke into your house and attacked you. I don't know you. Not, exactly, I  _ do _ sort of know you but I don't know why it runs so deep. And I think you might have some of the answers, or at least the right pieces so I wont feel so… empty." It's the most she's spoken yet and it might also be the most she's spoken in awhile; her throat feels rough. But it felt important to say. She watches him think. His thumb is brushing the back of her hand and she wonders if he knows he's doing it, then wonders if it should make her uncomfortable, it doesn't.

"Okay." He says eventually, then gestures to the dog bite. "But only after I patch that. Yeah?" He waits for confirmation: she nods. Only then, he seems to realize he still has her hand. He doesn't drop it like it's a snake as she half expected, but he does look embarrassed as he sets it on her thigh. Neither of them say anything as he methodically cleans and bandages the gashes.

It’s a scene that clearly is familiar to Chris, like he’s been in this exact place before more than once. The familiarity leads to a sense of almost tranquility, and while the guilt is still there, she can admit that the soft cloth wiping down her arms feels nice. Of course, tranquility doesn’t have a place in their lives, apparently, because when he freezes over the crease of her right elbow she can tell bad news is coming. 

Sucking air through his teeth, he twists it back and forth to get a better look. His head is in her line of sight, dark hair a barrier between her and whatever new horror is being examined. He pulls back and makes worried eye contact briefly until she gets a good look for herself.   
  
At first she’s confused, unclear of what she’s looking at. The inside of her right arm, now cleared of blood, is littered with small bruises ranging from an angry red to a bright yellow. A handspan patch of skin has clearly been abused for quite some time. There’s a name and idea for what they look like but she’s pretty sure she’s never seen it in person before.

“Are those-?”   
  
“Injection sites,” he confirms. She looks closer and can see the pin pricks now, some have scarred, too many to count. “Some of them look badly done, like a junkie.” She jerks her head up to look at him and almost clips him with the movement.   
  
“You think I did this to myself?”   
  
“I think it’d be hard to, unless you’re suddenly ambidextrous.” All together that leaves too much leading to a bad place to keep talking about so they fall back into silence. The crease between his eyebrows is somehow deeper. He tries to clean up the patch of skin but it doesn’t seem to need to be wrapped so he abandons it. 

When her bite is wrapped tight and he's helped her stand he leads her not to his room but the living room. She pauses in the doorway, only just now having the thought of-

"I didn't hurt her, did I? Your dog?" She looks anxiously down at the bandage and back to him. He's halfway into the room and shakes his head as he sits on the ratty couch.

"Nope. After she bit you, I tossed her in the bathroom while I wrestled you into the closet. She's in her crate now." He gestures vaguely towards the kitchen where she can quietly hear a squeaky toy. She can't see his face, but he doesn't sound worried. Now that she can see the back of his neck she can see more nail marks there.

She moves hesitantly into the space. "Good." The discovery on her arm lurks under the atmosphere now, all she can think about, and she would bet he feels similarly.

She wanders back to the fake fireplace, to the picture. Grateful for the distraction, she realizes the woman with the reddish ponytail suddenly has a name.

"This is Claire." She points, but doesn't check for confirmation yet. Something else is coming. "Your… sister?" She turns, leaving her finger on the glass. She says it as a question but can feel it to be true. He nods, unsure if this is going well or not. 

"She rides a motorcycle,” he offers. "A little reckless, but means well." Before he can continue, she does instead.

"Scares you half to death." The words are coming slowly, almost mechanically, and she doesn't seem like she's quite present. "Whip smart. Funny." Faster and more focused, "Your only family?" Again it isn't a question, not really.

"Yeah."

"You didn't want her doing dangerous things, not the life you wanted for her. But she… she is, and it has something to do with us." Snapping back to herself she makes wide eyed contact with him. He's half risen from the couch, stuck between not wanting to overwhelm her and trying to get her to sit down in case she falls down.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah it does." He looks a little relieved when she sits on the opposite side, back pressed to the arm of the couch. They face off, but it doesn't feel hostile.

"Does this start with S.T.A.R.S.?" She prompts, thinking of the picture of their younger selves.

He sighs.

"It does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Capcom, what color is Chris' eyes? Please pick one  
> Edited by nicefacepotter <3


	6. Chapter 6

He tries his best not to overwhelm her, but with trying to explain their shared past and every crazy thing that's happened to them, it seems impossible.

She takes it well as far as he can tell though, that world class poker face staying on for most of the conversation, dropping only when she remembers something on her own. She focuses on something small and worries it like a dog with a bone, but then she'd always been that way, and if she wants to linger on the layout of the S.T.A.R.S. office then hell, he'll let her. 

She's fading now, the exhaustion creeping in regardless of how hard she tries to fight it. He's grateful for it; he hasn't gotten to the Spencer Estate and he doesn't want to talk about that just yet. The separation had been… hard. Which doesn't nearly cover it but it'll pull him under if he thinks about it too hard. Worse than that, he doesn't want to tell her about her captivity.

He shakes his head to chase the thought away and watches her fight drooping eyelids and fail. Her head’s slumping forward then snapping backwards, but her eyes won't open anymore. She slumps down again, cheek pressed against the couch cushion and he can't help the smile he feels, even if it's strained. 

_The hair_ , he thinks, he kind of hates it, the wispy blonde taking the place of her beautiful dark brown and he knew she never liked it to be so long. Looking at her, she looked fragile, like a doll that would be crushed by your hands if you handled her too roughly. He knew though that wasn't true, she'd proven to be as fierce as always when she had lost herself today. 

The weight she had lost under Wesker and not regained under B.S.A.A. watch didn't weaken her at all, and her feral strength unnerved him. He knows she had been turned into a bio-organic weapon, knows she has things coursing through her veins both naturally developed and planted there- and knows he should call Rebecca again and turn Jill in. But he also knows he won't, can't. It might cost him his life but there had to be a good reason for her to leave the labs and he'd die if he had to in finding out why. He could almost laugh at the dramatic 'noble' thoughts of laying down his life like a knight in a story but he also knows it to be true and accepts it easily, cheesy as it is.

He _had_ saved her, he tells himself. Back in that awful place, yanked out the spider like device on her chest that controlled her. But he had to give her up to the team from the B.S.A.A. and had been hard pressed to get any information about her out of them since. Something had gone very wrong for her to feel desperate enough to break out and (hopefully she didn't but he doesn't know and can't help thinking the worst) walk all the way here. It had been months since he had seen her- almost a year, he realizes with surprise. He'd been so focused on the next thing, the next mission, next thing to fix, waiting for the next time he'd hear about _her_ . His most recent memory before this being of her weak smile and in a soft voice saying _I’ll see you soon._

Her appearance back then had shocked him, so had her orders to kill him. Now he gets that it was Wesker's way of rubbing it in; lemon juice in the cut, watching him almost break over his most important person being forced to fight him and being forced to hurt her in return. She'd said at the time she was aware through it all, silently screaming through every encounter, and it had broken his heart to hear her apologies.

This Jill had no memories of any of that, not yet at least. Things were coming back fast though and there were things he'd prefer to shoulder himself and let her forget, hell knows she'd been selfless enough for an entire lifetime. He’d always been the more selfish of the two of them and he could take that if it meant she'd be spared, it was always for her, he'd let cities fall for her if she'd let him. 

He does have to be somewhat rational though, and acknowledge that in her current state she is indeed dangerous. She had lost herself twice in a relatively short span and it'd been awful both times. If she didn't remember exactly what happened he wasn't about to tell her the gory details. The uncontrolled fury as she did all she could to kill him was too reminiscent of Africa to be a coincidence, and she had indicated something was wrong with her chest before the last time but it had gotten too complicated to really check what she'd meant. 

She had caught him off guard that second time. There was almost a moment there where the two of them were like they used to be, implicit trust and tending to each other's wounds- he sighs. 

Whatever is going on has to do with the P30 device that was attached to her, maybe when he'd pulled it out it'd left something behind in her body? He didn't want to think about being too rough taking it out as the cause for her current condition, but it was on the table. Then there was the even worse thought that maybe he’d saved her from Wesker only to turn her over to people who continued Wesker’s same style of atrocities on her. Testing to see what had been done to her and what she was capable of after shouldn’t have caused the B.S.A.A. to inject her so many times, should it? Being far from being a doctor he couldn’t say but it seemed wrong.

Keeping an eye on Jill's sleeping figure he eases off the couch and moves to release Calpurnia from her crate, crouching to pet her and murmur soft things while she tries to lick his face. 

"Alright girl, no walk tonight but let's go out for a second." She beats him to the front door, heavy tail occasionally thumping against the wall in excitement. Letting her out into the pitiful square of grass they charge him more money for as a 'yard' he leans on the doorframe, half in and out to keep watch on both dog and woman. Calpurnia having a great time sniffing everything, bounding across the tiny yard as if it were a football field. 

Jill doesn't move. His pocket rings. 

"What's happening?"

"Hi to you too, jerk." He smiles. 

"Hello, Claire Alice Redfield, to what do I owe the honor this evening?" 

"Har har. Okay whatever," he can picture her eyes rolling so clearly as she speaks, "obviously I'm here for an update on the situation." He can hear her moving quickly, she isn't alone. 

"Did you tell him?" Concerned.

"No! Leon, his name- you could use it. He knows I'd tell him if it was something big, which-" she continues in a stage whisper, "it _is!_ " Back to regular volume now. "But, for now, no. He doesn’t know anything specific."

He grimaces.

"Look, Claire, I'm sorry-"

"Don't give me that, it's okay. I don't like keeping things from him but this is a weird situation. Anyways, I tried to dig and see if anyone might have any ideas without tipping them off, but so far everyone is in the dark. If something is going down in the labs my people have no idea. TerraSave only works with you guys at a certain level I guess. How about you, anything from Rebecca?" 

"Similar, didn’t seem to think anything strange was happening. She's perceptive as always though, I could tell she didn't really believe my story but she helped me set Jill's shoulder anyways. She's good like that."

"Eugh." He can hear and picture her shiver from the mental image of relocating a bone. She'd always been a little squeamish over medical stuff, though when it came down to it she'd do whatever she needed to in a crisis. "That went okay then? How is she? I can be up there by tomorrow if you need any help."

"No." He says too quickly and she picks up on it. The last thing he needs is her here in potential danger. She wouldn't understand either, she'd tell Leon and Rebecca if she knew the full scope. "I've got it."

"So everything's dandy then, yeah. Just _peachy keen_?" She's gotten that tone that sounds like their mom down almost perfectly. He could groan, but she'd zero in even further. "Spill it, Chris. Something else happened. I can tell." 

“It’s all under control.” He tries to end it there but is intimately familiar with Claire’s tenacious streak and knows it’s a lost cause. He can almost hear the gears turning in her head, even through all of the distance and the phone. She snorts and he braces himself.  
  
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” 

“Maybe.”  
  
“She freaked out again then. That’s what seems most likely to me. You don’t want to tell me because I’ll tell you she’s dangerous and should call Becca, huh.” She’s not done so he waits it out. “Chris. I get it, it’s _Jill._ She could have been my sister, I care about her too. But if this is like what was happening with the P-thirty, or worse, a side effect, there’s not a lot you can do. No offense, but you’re not really equipped for this. She needs actual help.”  
  
She’s not calling him stupid, but the rush of heat he feels overtakes him anyways, she doesn’t get it, just like he knew she wouldn’t.  
  
“So, what? Return her to the people that she crossed a few states to get away from? Bullshit, I won’t do that.” He’s almost yelling, can hear it, but can’t keep it down. “She’s worse than when they took her. She didn’t have memory loss when I let them take her and now it was an hour before she recognized her own name. Something is _wrong._ And I will not give her back to those people until we know what it is.”  
  
“Okay,” Claire is trying to control her temper, voice shaking “yeah sure, that’s all well and good, but what happens if she kills you, or incapacitates you- gets loose and the local authorities shoot her? What will have been the point then! Especially when you could have done something to prevent it?”

  
He hangs up, snapping the phone closed hard and gripping it so tightly the plastic creaks. Turning to call Calpurnia back inside, behind him comes a quiet voice.  
  
“She’s right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Claire!  
> Edited by @nicefacepotter


	7. Chapter 7

He’s angry. Broad shoulders bunched and tense. She watches him from her spot, leaning against the counter and cradling her left elbow in her hand, keeping her expression passive. 

“No,” is all he says, calling the dog inside and turning away, slowly closing and locking the door to avoid looking at her. Eventually though he has to turn, expression hard.  
  


“She’s right. I’m a danger.” Voice steady. 

“I disagree.”

  
  
“No, you don’t.” There’s a barely perceivable slump to his shoulders.

“There’s more you haven’t told me. I can tell and I can also guess.” She thinks of the tall blond man with the sunglasses that lurks in her memory, associated strongly with fear and pain. “I’ve done this before, haven’t I. Hurt you.”

  
Confirmation. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have a choice.”

  
  
“I don’t seem to have much say over this either. Doesn’t discard that I’ve done this before and you’re letting me do it again.” There’s no emotion there, just facts, and it seems to make him angrier. 

“ _You don’t want to go back._ ” His eyebrows are a thick line over his narrowed eyes. 

“I didn’t say go back.” She feels that same fear again, _red impassive eyes below non-existent eyebrows-_ but shoves it down. “But Claire is right. I’m going to hurt you again.” When he moves to disagree she cuts him off, “Don’t say I won’t because neither of us know why it’s happening, so I’m basically a ticking time bomb until I go crazy again.”

  
  
“I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t know that!”

  
  
“Well, I’m not going to call her back. So that’s the end of it. You should go back to sleep.” 

“Fuck that. I’m not done.” When he tries to move past her, she pushes into his space and gets in his face. Calpurnia whines behind him, nervous. He won’t look her in the eyes but he’s breathing hard. She changes tactics but doesn’t move.

  
  
“Hey.” She tries softness. “Hey, look at me.” She continues anyways when he doesn’t. “I got an idea of what I can do from your stories, and you can’t deny that I’m a threat. I also think, given our shared history, I came here because part of me sees you as a source of safety. With that in mind, how do you think I’d feel if I kill you and then get back all of those memories of you and realize what I’ve lost?” 

When she says ‘ _lost,’_ she gets a clearer look at that pain he tried to hide hours earlier. It’s an equal dose of loss; he lost her at some point and it still hurts. She was right to go this direction then, and she knows she should feel bad for pulling that back up but if it sways him it’s worth it. Feeling his resolve weakening, she keeps pushing.

  
  
“You don’t have to decide this minute. We can compromise, figure it out tomorrow. I’ll sleep in the closet to separate myself, but I’ll stay.” Not that she has anywhere else to go currently, but it will be incredibly easy to steal the phone while he’s asleep. She wants him to think of it as a compromise, and he swallows the bait.   
  


“Fine.” She could smile but it’d give her away.

  
“Fine,” she repeats without harshness, moving aside and adding the feeling of disappointment as he leaves her space to the pile of puzzle pieces she has that’s labeled as ‘them’ for their relationship. Following him, she evaluates. 

This past day has been more than disorienting, feeling closer to weeks, but sometimes that’s life and you don’t catch a break. She went from no one to Jill Valentine, Special Operations Agent and important member of the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance. Maybe his story was all bullshit: zombies, special tactics and rescue squads, an ever increasing amount of terrorist designed virus strains. It’s all insane. But it rings completely true. And together they have a big part in all of it.

  
  
They both stop at the closet door and glance inside. She winces at the destruction, but Chris seems to be resigned. 

“This is gonna take awhile.” He exhales in a long _whoosh._ Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he bends to get started. It’s too small a space for both of them to work so she watches instead, shifting between him and the mess she’s made. It seems like she tried to kick down the door, there’s dents that she would bet match the heels of her boot, and the area around the lock is strained. It’s hard to look at, and harder to think of being the one to have done it, imagining herself wild eyed and crazed kicking at the door screaming.

  
  
Jittery, she decides she can’t stand there anymore, “Can I take a shower?” Anything to get away from this specific train of thought, and she does feel rather disgusting. He’s methodically rearranging a drawer she had ripped out and tossed, it contained socks and he has a very specific way of organizing them apparently. Sock in hand, he shrugs and turns to her.

  
  
“Uh, yeah sure.” He looks silly, squatting there, and a sudden manic laugh bubbles in her throat. She cuts it off, trying to turn it into a small cough, but he notices. 

“You sure you’re okay to? I’m not trying to tell you that you can’t, it’s just if something happens, the shower door is glass and I don’t want to have to try and grab you- you know.” His cheeks tinge pink.

_Noted,_ another piece for the ‘Them’ pile. 

  
“I’m sure, I’m just,” she searches for the right expression, “slap-happy or something. Tired.”

  
  
“Okay.” He says it slowly, watching her closely. Sidling towards the door, she nods at him.

  
  
“-Hey, wait.” He ducks back into the closet for a second then reemerges, passing her a neat stack of clothes. “Something more comfortable, if you want them. The towels are in the cabinet under the sink.” His face is still pink. She retreats, nodding again.   
  
-

She takes a couple deep breaths to steady herself once in the privacy of the bathroom. There’s so much to think about, too much. She’s starting to gather that the ‘episodes’ or whatever they decide to call them are caused by extreme distress, so if she wants to control them she’d better learn fast how to calm herself down. Move onto something more tolerable, but with things coming back fast and still more to learn, she’s not sure how to avoid another one. It feels inevitable.

That exercise Chris had, counting breaths, naming things, if she can remember it when she feels she’s slipping, it might work.

_Speak of the Devil-_ Chris opens the door abruptly, then swearing to himself promptly closes it again, directly onto his sock clad foot.

_“Fuck._ Sorry, I should have knocked.” He’s partially in the doorway, clearly checking that she’s decent.

  
  
“It’s fine. What’s going on?”

“So.” He’s serious again, any trace of a flush on his cheeks fading. “So- I really don’t know where to start with this. I promise I’ll explain everything about it later, but you’re going to have some uh, scars.” His eyes dart to her chest then refocus back on her gaze instantly, clearly not wanting her to notice. She does.

  
  
“Okay ? ” There’s an ‘ _and?’_ clear in her tone.

“They’re probably… intense. Is what I’m trying to get at. And the story that goes with them is something we need to talk about, just, later okay? Tomorrow, I promise. Don’t, I don’t know. I’m worried they’ll trigger another-” thinking of a word, “Blackout. There’s a lot of glass in here, like I said.”

  
  
He’s being too vague and it’s suspicious, his words adding to the notion that there’s something very very big he doesn’t want to tell her, but it’s a well intentioned warning and she’s set on demanding the rest of their story later regardless, so she’ll take the promise with the intention of cashing in later.

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll yell if I think something is going to happen.” He still looks worried but nods, then scrambles to shut the door as she starts to pull the tank top over her head. She lets herself laugh about it quietly as she clambers into the shower.

Holding the sides of her face, crouching under the scalding water, she takes the time to organize things in her overfull skull. Everything she knows now first:  
  
 _It’s 2010._

_I’m in Grand Junction, Colorado in a neighborhood of B.S.A.A. safehouses._

_Chris Redfield’s apartment specifically, who I met in 1996._

_We were a part of a special group unit when the first B.O.W. virus was accidentally leaked, causing a zombie outbreak in Racoon City in 1998._

_We were present for it and got out._

_Our boss, Albert Wesker double crossed us._

_I was in Racoon City right up until it was eradicated._

_Some time after which, we helped form the B.S.A.A._

Then things she can guess about through heavily clouded memory and conjecture:

_Something happened to me roughly five years ago, possibly involving Wesker._

_If that’s true, somehow Wesker did something to me that Chris doesn’t want to tell me about._

_Before or after which, I hurt him in some way, not by choice._

_I’ve been tested on after being recovered._

_Since then I’ve broken out and made my way here from Wisconsin, presumably, since that’s where Rebecca and the B.S.A.A. labs are located._

_Why would I, in a fucking blackout- make my way through TWO states to get here? What could have made me want to do that?_ She’s mystified, but it feels safe to assume it has to do with the track marks and the man named Wesker.

_Is Wesker dead? Is he the man with the red eyes?_ The name does pull up blond hair, but the eyes are covered with dark glasses making it hard to confirm. The whole subject makes her chest itch. She tries to get a good look at it but it's hard with the angle to see all of it, the disgorged dark veins creeping out from half-healed _deep_ holes surrounded by dense scar tissue look and feel insidious. 

_What could have caused this?_ It feels like eyeing a rabbit hole and instead of nervous rabbits and asshole cats the other side, it feels like there might be another blackout waiting. Glancing at the glass shower door warily, she tries to change tracks. 

Thankfully in the ten odd hours since she’s gotten here, her memory seems to be strengthening and as far as she can tell, nothing new or learned has been lost. It feels good to have things _stick_ . Remembering people and events makes her realize not only how disorienting but how sad it is to lose all those connections that ground a person to reality. Little things are coming back and they’re acting like braces, bolstering her grip on calm.   
  


Little things like Claire’s perfume, the sly smile before saying something she knows is funny, the comfortable sibling banter between her and Chris. Memories of mundane activities with Chris, his near perfect scores on the gun range, the contrast between his intensity and focus on missions and his natural easy going demeanor. There's others too, a large older man with a kind face is associated with gratitude, but he doesn't yet have a name. A tiny brunette with the courage of a lion, she's smiling even through exhaustion in Jill's mental image. Fun, happy, even the memories tainted by exhaustion and fear, she wants them back, all of the connections she’s lost.

It would be nice to know who they are again, she thinks. But it's late and the weight of the day is heavy on her bruised shoulders, and she still needs to get Chris' phone to talk to Claire and get a more rational response to the whole situation. Chris is too close to it all to put it in perspective, though she feels hard pressed to blame him. Clearly there's a lot of history between them and it's clouding his judgment. 

_Were we together?_ She muses, clinging to the better train of thought. _I’m not getting the feeling that we broke up or something, it’s not that kind of awkward, more of… No, something clearly did or almost went down, he seems to know even the smallest details of my life and I think it’d be hard to deny nothing ever happened, but it sure doesn’t feel like nothing._ It makes her want to smile in a silly way and the heat in her cheeks and torso is the best thing she’s felt all day.

She revels in the feeling just for a moment before forcing herself back to seriousness and focus. She can’t get distracted now and risk everything she’s just barely getting back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took an unintentional week off for Christmas I guess  
> I'm going to try my best in being consistent though!  
> Edited by nicefacepotter


	8. Chapter 8

Slipping back into the bedroom, she's unsurprised to see that Chris has made quick work of resetting the closet back to it's pristine condition. He's also made a makeshift bed on the floor by the door to the hallway that she eyes curiously as she steps over it. Chris has wrestled Calpurnia's crate into the room and is settling her into it as Jill walks in, oblivious to her presence. When he finally notices her, he starts, then smiles a small rueful smile that she doesn't understand but doesn't ask about. Instead asks,

"So, change of plans?" Indicating the neatly laid out blankets and solitary pillow. 

"Yeah." He seems uncomfortable. "Yeah, I just figured it'd be more comfortable for you on the bed, your shoulder-"

"And if I lose it and strangle you while you sleep?"

"I was _getting_ there. If you think you can sleep like that, cuff one hand to the bed." 

_Kinky._ They're both thinking it, impossible not to, so neither say it aloud. It is a good idea though and with her lock pick safely concealed, it'll be just as easy to slip the cuffs than the original plan of picking the closet door. Slip out, grab the phone, message Claire and hope she figures something out before Jill can seriously harm Chris, then return to the safety of the cuffs. 

"Oh." She nods. "Okay, that sounds good." She would add she feels bad kicking him out of his own bed, but it was his idea and he doesn’t seem like he’d take the apology anyways, so she leaves it be. 

When everything is settled, she's on her side as comfortable as possible with her right hand attached to the bedpost. Facing the picture of the two of them, she gingerly reaches over, mindful of over-extending her shoulder and sets the frame upright. Even with the lights off, the street lamps illuminate the room enough to see it.

They look so happy. She badly wants to ask but it seems like a terrible idea. It comes out anyways.

"Were we together?"

Silence. Maybe he's fallen asleep, he's breathing evenly. It's probably for the best- she hadn't meant to ask anyways and it seems a risky subject. 

She's sure he's asleep and contented herself to waiting a bit longer before executing her plan when he finally answers.

"No."

"...Why?"

The silence drags.

"Just thought we'd have more time to get there, I guess." It's filled with regret.

  
She doesn't answer. Eventually she hears his breathing shift into a slower rhythm and guesses this time he's actually asleep.

Staring at their picture until she cant wait any longer or risk falling asleep herself; she retrieves the lock pick from the rolled waistband of the sweatpants. It's harder to do like this, a bad angle for her right hand and painful for her other arm but she pushes through. After a short minute it opens with a soft _click_ and she gingerly removes it, careful to not rattle it against the post. Easing off the bed and padding quietly to his sleeping form is simple enough, but Calpurnia is awake and alert, watching warily from her crate; a bark from her would ruin everything. All she can do is hope she won't and press on. 

Chris looks a lot like his younger self when asleep, no stress lines and world weary expression. She's zeroed in on the pocket with the phone but her attention is pulled to the chain around his neck instead, breaking her focus. It's out from under his shirt and three tags are visible on it, different ages and makes. With one finger she gently spreads them out to read in the half light. 

The first reads Christopher Redfield in bold font and an I.D. number for the U.S. Air Force in the late eighties. The other two are newer, they say 'B.S.A.A. Operative' on them and while this first one is stamped with his name like the one before, the second says hers.

_Oh._

He's been holding onto her tags, has a drawer of things devoted to trying to find her. _"Just thought we'd have more time to get there, I guess."_

She doesn't feel that same depth, but she does feel something for him and to kill him in an uncontrollable moment is too big a risk. The phone, it's even more important now. Calpurnia whines quietly behind her.

Pickpocketing seems to be as easy for her as lock picking and that's another line of questions she has for herself that now is not the time for. She's almost got the phone eased from the pocket when his hand comes up lightning fast and snatches her wrist.

_Shit._

The motion is reactionary, his grip hard while he tries to wake up completely. When he does, he takes the phone from her hand, let's go, and rolls to his back, scrubbing his eyes to get the sleep out. She stays crouched sheepishly, thwarted.

Voice rough with sleep he says, "I'm not-'' A deep sigh. "You're not a captive here. I'm not trying to kidnap you or something. But could this keep till the mornin' maybe?" The barest hint of a midwestern accent slips out while he fights a yawn. 

"I guess so." She slinks back to the bed in defeat and re-cuffs her wrist. He's still on his back, one hand over his eyes. 

Groaning, with joints popping, he sits up and leans against the wall facing her. He propped up his head on the wall, eyes bleary but sharp underneath while he considers her. Now she feels a twinge of guilt.   
  
“Claire?” He asks. She makes a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat in response. “Yeah, okay.” He looks way older than thirty-six as he makes himself comfortable. The picture of him sitting like this brings up memories and she realizes he’s settling in to keep watch.   
  
“I just.” She sighs, frustrated. “I’m not going to try again, you can sleep.”   
  
“You’re worried about ‘strangling me in my sleep’ right?” She’s not sure where this is going so she keeps quiet. “So, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”   
  
Frowning, she’s torn, but ultimately decides to toss him the lockpick. He catches it and snorts once he understands what it is.   
  
“Should have known.” But there’s no anger in his voice.   
  
“I want to call Claire tomorrow.” His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t say no. “Please sleep.” He doesn’t move and she gets the feeling that stubbornness is a big trait of his; it feels familiar. 

This doesn’t seem like something she’s going to win, so she doesn’t try. She will push the Claire thing tomorrow, she promises herself while resettling and lets sleep take her when it comes.

-

_Everything is too bright. She can’t see. It hurts her eyes, but there's bigger hurts everywhere else on her body- in her organs even- that the light doesn’t hold a candle to. There’s ice coursing through her right arm and she can feel things moving underneath the skin, writhing between muscle strands and it's excruciating._

__

_She wants to scream._

__

_She can't seem to find her voice, choking on something in her throat- can't close her mouth, can’t move to pull it out, and the panic grows. Restraints across her thighs and her chest, they dig into bare flesh as she thrashes against them. She thinks they might cut into her, thinks she can feel her blood trickling down over her skin. Her spine is on fire._

__

_A face looms into view, but the headlamp they wear obscures everything but the surgical mask and safety glasses. They say nothing. A hand reaches down and shuts her eyes._

__

_Behind closed lids, a face remains: pale with blue eyes and ice blonde hair, shifts to red eyes and sharper features, then gaining a pair of dark glasses. She’s pulling at the restraints, a new sharp pain encircling her wrist as she screams and screams in her head._

"Woah, woah! Hey, it's okay- you're okay-"

She _is_ screaming.

The pain in her wrist is brighter. Though the sharp restraints are gone, there's still something holding her down and the idea of something else happening to her is too much to bear.

_No more!_ She moans, unsure if it's aloud or in her mind.

"Jill- _Jill_! You're safe- you're okay!" The weight pinning her down shifts and she struggles harder. Gasping for air, throat burning. 

"Hey. Hey! _Shit-_ stay with me Jill, you're safe, you're okay, it's Chris-" 

_Chris...? Chris!_ The darkness is dragging her in right as she's scrabbling for consciousness, an understanding for what's about to happen clear-

But she's sinking.

Down.

Down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being late!  
> Edited by nicefacepotter


	9. Chapter 9

Turns out there’s no need for any debate over calling Claire; at six-thirty in the morning, she’s made that choice for everyone. 

He looks at the phone as it lights up and vibrates in his palm, seriously considering not answering it before sighing and flipping it open.   
  
At least she’s not arguing right out of the gate. “Hey.”   
  
“Hey.” If someone is going to talk first, it sure isn’t going to be him. She can bring up their argument from last night.   
  
“So.” She sounds uncomfortable, nervous. “I’m sorry for things getting so heated.”    
  
He could let her feel bad, probably make her feel worse, if he were in the mood to do so. But truly, he’s just tired and could use some help. Claire was good in crisis situations, almost thrived in them, and he can finally admit this is a crisis situation.   
  


“Nah. I’m sorry, you were right. I shouldn’t have yelled.” Dragging his free hand over his face, he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs again. “I can’t do this by myself and I should have listened and let you come up.”

She clears her throat. “About that.” Instantly he knows right before she says it. “I may have made a choice in the heat of the moment, and well- I’m here.” She says the last bit with forced, sheepish fanfare. He hangs up and heads to the door.

When he opens it, she’s holding her phone up to her ear, expression indignant. His pocket rings once before she closes her phone to greet him.

“Oh. Hey.” To her credit, she does look like she’s thought everything through  _ now,  _ and regrets showing up uninvited. “I can go, hang out in a diner or something- motel maybe-”    
  


She lets him pull her inside and smiles against his chest when he pulls her into a hug. He might be miffed at her, but she means well and she’s still his baby sister. If he’s being honest, even though he’s worried about Claire getting involved in this mess, he’s grateful for her coming to help lighten the load.

“In the least rude way possible, you look like shit.” She's taking in his appearance, noting the scratches in concern. He snorts, lacking the energy for a real laugh.

“Smooth. Thanks.” He takes in her riding jacket and eyebags. “You’re not looking so hot either. Please tell me you didn’t ride your motorcycle here.” She doesn’t answer as she puts her backpack down, but he can see the corner of her mouth quirk the way it does when she knows she’s done something but doesn’t want to say.

“Claire, it’s almost eight hours from Santa Fe-”

“Seven and a half,” she clarifies. He’s unimpressed.

“Still.”   
  
She flops down on the couch, limbs akimbo, head over the back. 

“Okay, yes, it was far and a bad idea. But at least I took a nap before talking myself into coming.” 

Calpurnia trots over to Claire and sets her big head and squeaky toy down on her leg. “Oh hey, Nia!” Claire beams and pulls herself upright in a dramatic way to pet the happy dog.

He watches her, too tired to bring anything up himself, feeling like he might fall asleep where he stands.

“Wait, weren’t you just on a mission two days ago? Have you slept since Wednesday?”

_ What day is it now? _ He’s frustrated, he’s stayed up longer than this before. He heaves out a sigh as he settles on the floor, leaning against the couch and giving Calpurnia a hardy pat on her side.

“Maybe? I’m not sure. I got a couple hours last night.”

He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s unimpressed.

Softer than expected, she asks, “What happened?”   
  
Resting his elbows on his knees, he fills her in, every detail he left out and every new thing since they last talked. He thinks he’s doing a pretty good job keeping any emotions out, but when her hand comes to rest on his shoulder and squeezes gently, he knows he’s failed on that front.

  
  
“Chris…” He pushes on but doesn’t shrug off her hand.

  
  
“I think she had some sort of night terror? It was awful… it wasn’t the same as when she- attacked.” He sniffs, realizing he’s hit that point of exhaustion and distress where he tears up. “She was so  _ scared, _ Claire, she wasn’t angry. Not right then at least, but then she slipped. I could feel it happen.” 

Claire slides down to the floor next to him and leans her head on his shoulder, tucking a hand under his bicep to hold like she did when they were kids. 

“I had to put her in a chokehold.” He admits in a shaky whisper to his trembling hands. “She was hurting herself, and I couldn’t calm her down, I-”

“Hey, hey.” Claire is sounding like a double of their mom as she soothes, tugging on his hand to hold in both of hers and holding it steady between her palms. “You did everything you could. None of this is your fault.”

“It’s not hers either.”

“I didn’t say it was. I want to help her too. She’s my friend and I know how much she means to you.”

“I just,” he sniffs again, feeling eight years old, “I don’t know what to do.” He leans into her when she says,   
  
“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

-

Out of the two of them, Claire is definitely the worse cook, which doesn’t mean she’s bad at it per say, but she definitely makes a bigger mess and adds too much salt occasionally. 

He's watching her now, hands wrapped around a coffee mug, leaning on the counter. She's already teased him about the amount of protein powder he has (two tubs, but they were on  _ sale _ ), how tightly packed his freezer is ("like Tetris!"), and the three empty boxes of MRE bars in his recycling bin ("Those were for assignments right, you don't eat them normally?" He does, but he's not telling her now). 

Whatever she's making has her entire focus and he knows from experience that unless directly asked something, she'll keep that focus until she's finished. Despite the time and spending seven, no _ , eight _ , hours on a motorcycle, she's alert, forgoing coffee for a glass of orange juice she sips occasionally. 

The scene reminds him of his early twenties; they had just lost their parents and he'd made a point to come see her once a week so they wouldn't lose that last family bond. She'd come up with Sunday breakfast being their thing. Their dad had loved the occasion, cooking more food than four people could eat without fail, and she'd wanted to keep it going. They both would take turns making breakfast and talking about mundane things like her classes and his training. 

That all had stopped though once the world decided to go through a seemingly never ending stream of near apocalypses and swept them both along with it. It’s a dark train of thought, so he drops it to ask,

“Hey, how’s the kid?” He waits while she takes a minute to come back from wherever she goes when she focuses like this.

“Sherry?” She makes a face that passes too quick to read. “I’m not sure, actually. We’re still trying to find where she is to visit, but it’s been a stream of deactivated lines and phone tag. Leon is trying to look where he can, but it’s kind of coming up empty and it’s been years. She got sort of adopted, but I don’t know the guy.” 

The look is frustration. “It’s like she’s disappeared off the face of the Earth and they’re trying to make us forget about her. We kind of did too and that’s the worst part. After Antarctica and Spain, we both just got so busy. That’s a terrible excuse, but it’s what happened.” 

She doesn’t want or need any input, so he just lets her vent. He wishes he could help and, though he’s never met the kid, he knows she means a lot to Claire and Claire feels responsible for her.

“She’d be around twenty-three now too, so maybe she just doesn’t want anything to do with us since we left her there. That’d be okay, I guess, I wouldn’t blame her- just seems weird that they’re being so cagey about her and won’t tell us anything, everything is classified. So much for Leon trading working for the government to protect her, I know he feels like he’s failed to keep her safe. I do too.”

“Ugh.” She sets both hands down on the counter in fists then softens them. “Anyways, bigger fish to fry and all that.” She’s changing the subject, and he lets her.

“We agree we should call Rebecca right?” 

He closes his eyes but can hear her get back to work and smell bacon as it hits the pan. “I guess there’s no other choice, is there?” Claire makes a noise of agreement and sympathy.

“I just don’t want to get her in trouble, you know? She’s not the kind to get involved in this stuff, so it’s not as if I think she’s in on whatever's going on, just worried that if we bring her attention to it she’ll get caught up in a bad way.” He can’t get his eyes back open, lack of sleep gluing them shut.

“What if we get her to come here?” He peels open his eyes to look at her. “Ask her to bring her field kits, say it’s for TerraSave and get her out of there. Then she’s safe and she can help with the Jill situation at the same time.”

“That’s a solid plan.”

“Thanks.” She raises her eyebrows up and down comically, “I’m known for those sometimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claire has entered the building! Which is good, Chris needs her  
> Edited by nicefacepotter


	10. Chapter 10

She's not exactly late. It's not like she has a rigid time card, she sort of works on a volunteer-but-paid basis. Still, she does like to get to the labs at the same time as everyone so she doesn't come off as entitled or above anyone else. 

_Thirty minutes? Seriously?!_

Thankfully, Alyssa holds the elevator door for her, clearly on her way up from the coffee cart. She sips from her cup and watches Rebecca straighten out her skirt and hair.

"Late night?" 

"Oh! Uh, no. No." Rebecca shakes her head, slightly out of breath from the mad dash from her car and through security.

"I overslept. I can't believe it, that never happens to me."

"Hey, it happens.” Shrugging, she comments, “I love that skirt, makes your legs look really good." Then offers up her cup.

"Thanks." Feeling flushed, she gratefully takes a sip and hands it back. "Uh, so! Anything interesting today or are we just going to keep processing group C?"

"No, Ivanov has something, some sort of meeting with just our lab. She's being very cryptic, especially before a four-day weekend, I hope she's not going to talk us into staying overtime." She looks annoyed as she adds, "I made plans this weekend already, staying behind while every other lab gets to go off and jet ski or whatever would suck."

Making a noise of agreement, she follows Alyssa's swaying blonde ponytail through the halls, towards the meeting room outside the doctor's office. They _are_ late and even though Alyssa seems unfazed, Rebecca can feel her own face turn bright red as they make their way to their seats in front of their colleagues. 

Dr. Ivanov perpetually seems put upon and annoyed, so it's hard to tell if she's upset at their lateness or not. She doesn't comment though, waiting until they're settled to begin speaking.

"As you _hopefully_ are aware, tomorrow kicks off a four day weekend here. Unfortunately, we are woefully behind on our work, especially with isolating and processing the new samples. Team leaders, this was under your responsibilities. I expected better initiative.” Alyssa shifts in her seat, seeming uncharacteristically annoyed; under the table, her leg begins to bounce aggressively fast. Rebecca puts her hand on her forearm as comfort and a warning.

  
  


“If this really is a Progenitor strain imitator on the market, we need to know A-S-A-P. In short, we need to do better." From her seat at the end of the big table, Alex Ivanov folds her hands neatly and takes the time to look each person in the eyes. It's meant to be an affirming thing, Rebecca thinks, but mostly it's a little frightening. 

"So, we will have to give up part of our long weekend. If we work quickly, hopefully it will just be one day and everyone will be free to do as they please after." Any notion of groaning or complaining is quickly shut down as she continues. "I have also negotiated for triple pay to make up for it."

The atmosphere around the table brightens immediately and that closes the conversation. She's hard to read but it seems as if the doctor is pleased with herself; Rebecca watches her while she gathers her things and leaves. She could have sworn she smiled.

Back in their own office though, where it's the two of them, Alyssa is furious. Seemingly contemplating throwing things around, she settles on throwing her files down on her desk and screeching through her teeth.

"Woah, hey, what's going on?" Rebecca closes the door to give Alyssa's freak out privacy from everyone else.

"I just! Can't _stand_ the way she talks to us!" Her back is turned but her hands gripping her desk have white knuckles from the force. "She's not _better_ than me, and certainly not better than _you!"_

She whips around to face Rebecca. She still looks like she'd like to break things, but there's nothing here that she can. 

"Okay…" Hands out like she's trying to corral a wild animal, she approaches. "It's okay, you're right that she can be condescending sometimes, but she's only temporary, remember? She'll be leaving soon."

As quickly as her anger came, she deflates. Allowing Rebecca to hold her hands and smooth out the fists. 

"God, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. You're right." She takes a deep breath and seems a little sheepish, but there's still anger in her eyes.

"It's okay, it happens to the best of us sometimes."

"'Cept you, I guess. You're always Miss Perfect." It stings but Rebecca shakes it off, _stress can make people say hurtful things._

"Let's just try and finish out today, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." She lets out a big exhale. "I just- I've had a lot of people think I was just some nobody screw up. I let her get to me.

"I mean, I am a nobody," she laughs harshly, "I always have been, but I'm _not_ a screw up." 

Rebecca feels a wave of pity for the woman but tries to brush it off. Alyssa doesn't want pity, she reminds herself, she just wants to be heard.

"You aren't a nobody! Not to me, at least." She hopes Alyssa can see how genuine she's being when she adds. "You're the only person I can honestly say is my good friend here. And I don't have a lot of friends outside of here, either. You matter."

Alyssa sniffs and wipes her nose on her sweater sleeve. 

"Thanks Beccs, that means a lot to me." She accepts Rebecca's hug gratefully. Then, trying to ease the tension, she starts joking like her usual self.

"Hey, do you think ' _Dr. Alex Ivanov'_ is secretly a Russian spy?" She says the doctor's name with an exaggerated fake accent, then giggles. “She looks like a Bond villain.”

“Oh _ha ha_ , veeeeery funny.” Rebecca only manages to look stern for a couple seconds before smiling back. 

For the next couple of hours, things seem to be normal. Alyssa goes back to her cheerful self after a few hours, seeming to forget completely about her outburst, chatting away and blazing through their experiments. At nine, Rebecca's phone rings.

Checking the number, she's surprised to see it's one of TerraSave’s codes. 

"Hello?" She's even more surprised to hear Claire Redfield on the other end. She's only met Claire a couple of times and they were all pleasant but brief experiences. Alyssa looks up from her microscope to look at her in curiosity, mouthing a ' _who is it?_ ' before Rebecca waves her off and moves away. 

"Claire! Hi, what do you need?"

"Hiya Becca, I need a huge favor." She says everything quickly. "I need some extra eyes and minds on something high level for TerraSave, it's on the more hush hush side and something in your expertise."

"Okay," she says slowly, turning her back on Alyssa who is being distracting, trying to get answers from her. "Sure, but why not someone on-" glances back, "uh, your team?" She resists adding that Claire could call the actual TerraSave employees in the building rather than her, but she doesn't, not wanting to sound rude.

"It's, it's something only you would understand." It sounds like Claire has put her hand over the mouth piece from the sound of muffled talking. "An _Arklay_ sort of situation."

"Oh."

"Yes, exactly. Can I get you a plane ticket to me? I'll explain everything, I promise. Once you're here."

"I'll see what I can do." There's something Claire doesn't want to say over the phone, and by saying 'Arklay' this must have something to do with Chris, or Umbrella, but since it does really seem to be dead this time- most likely Chris. They must not think it's safe to say everything. "It might take a bit though, can I text or call you back?"

"Absolutely. Can you bring your field kits please? Bio-chem and first aid, as extensive as you’ve got. For _TerraSave_ , again. I'll explain when you get here." 

"Sure, I'll call you back when I can." She hangs up mechanically, trying to piece everything from the weird conversation together.

_If Claire is with Chris but doesn't want to say, she doesn't want the B.S.A.A. to know. Helping TerraSave is clearly a cover, but for what._ She gnaws on a fingernail until a sharp poke in her side startles her.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to scare you. What was all that?"

"I got a call to help out somewhere." She might as well use the cover story and trust in the Redfields. _With my med-aid kit? Whoever Chris was helping yesterday maybe?_ She feels close to figuring it out. 

"Sorry, I have to go talk to Ivanov." Slipping out the door before Alyssa can keep prying, she puzzles over it all in the halls.

_Maybe I shouldn't try to work it all out right now._ She's not the best liar and she knows it. _It might be better to not know everything before I go in there._

Dr. Ivanov's door is open when she arrives. The woman is sitting at her desk, writing in what appears to be a journal. 

"Come in." She doesn't look up but finishes her sentence and places the book into a drawer.

"What do you need?" As always, she makes it sound as if she's inconvenienced by the presence of anyone else and that her time is being wasted. 

It's intimidating, but this is important.

"I received a call requesting my help somewhere else today, so I need to leave." She's proud about how smooth she sounds. "I'm sorry to leave my team shorthanded."

"Are you asking me or telling me?" It feels like a test. The doctor's impassive face is giving nothing away. 

"Telling. I wouldn't leave on a whim or to shirk duty-"

"You're here as a favor to the higher ups because you're very useful. I can't fault another group for needing you. Good luck." It's a clear dismissal, but prefaced by the compliment doesn't feel as rude. Rebecca can feel eyes on her back as she leaves. 

-

"What, just like that-"

"Sorry, I'll make it up to you!" 

"Wait-!" But Rebecca doesn't pause as she leaves, letting the door close on Alyssa's bewildered face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Rebecca chapter! I hope you like it :)  
> edited by nicefacepotter, as usual <3


	11. Chapter 11

Waking up burrito'd tight in blankets is a surprise. But as Jill wakes up fully she thinks that it could be worse, and comparatively it is much nicer than the last few times she's regained consciousness. _Am I…? Swaddled? What is this?_ She tries to wiggle a hand free. Could laugh about how ridiculous she must look, but tries to focus on finding a way out instead. Feeling more caterpillar than person, she rolls, trying to find some way of exiting her cocoon. Ultimately she just ends up falling off the bed with a muffled thump.

It doesn’t hurt but does startle a laugh out of her while one arm is finally released. As she finally makes her way free and manages to stand, the door opens cautiously.

Calpurnia wastes no time pushing past Chris to come sniff at her hand and despite the distrust Jill’s earned since being bit, the dog still lets her scratch behind her ears and even lolls her tongue out of her mouth. Chris watches from the doorway, worried expression back into place softened only slightly because of the dog.

Surprisingly another face peeks around his shoulder. This close together the familial resemblance is unmistakable, this woman has to be Claire.

Feeling silly and self conscious standing in her shed blankets, she’s grateful when Claire breaks the silence.

“Hi.” Claire says with a smile. “It’s good to see you again.” When Jill nods Claire seems to realize something and rushes to add,

“Oh, wait- shit, I’m not trying to be confusing, I’m-”

“Claire.” Jill cuts in.

“Yeah.” She glances up at Chris, unsure how to continue, and nudges him when he doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything.

“How are you feeling?” He asks quietly. There’s not a lot to say about it, so she shrugs with her good shoulder.

“Alive, I guess.”

Claire clearly thinks now is a good time to bow out, so she pats her leg for Calpurnia and smiles again before exiting. “I made breakfast, if you’re hungry!” She calls over her shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

Chris seems automatically drawn to tidying things, so she quickly skips backwards out of the blanket pile to let him pick them up. Like most things, she can guess he has a specific way of doing it so rather than offer to help, she stands holding her elbows while he remakes the bed. He’s unreadable again, thinking about something, but what, she isn’t sure. 

“You okay?” He looks up incredulously at the question, half smiling in confusion.

“You’re asking _me_ if _I’m_ okay?”

“Yeah. It’s not always all about me, and you’ve been through a lot because of me. I’m checking in.” For some reason she feels that she should have added ‘partner’ to the end of that but thinks it’d be weird to say.

He shakes his head and looks like he could laugh.

“Right now it _is_ about you, and that’s okay. I can handle it.” He gently picks up her right hand and twists it to see her newly damaged wrist. It’s got a gnarly looking bruise from the cuffs and where the skin was broken has already scabbed.

“You don’t need to always worry about other people, brave girl.” The way he says it doesn’t sound condescending, but familiar and fond. 

His mouth turns down, “I’m sorry the cuffs didn’t turn out so good.”

“Neither of us could have known; it was a good idea. What’s another bruise at this point, anyway?” He doesn’t like how blasé her tone is, she can tell, but he doesn’t do anything other than frown deeper. He still has her hand so she touches his forearm with the other and smiles softly when he meets her eyes.

“It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself, okay?” His answering hum doesn't sound like an agreement, so she twists the hand in his to actually hold it and squeezes. 

She wants to pull the big man into a hug and see him smile, hear a genuine laugh, but she doesn't know how that would go over and can't bring herself to let go of his hand to find out. 

The moment of silence between them isn't awkward, but it is loaded. Almost as if he doesn't realize he's doing it, he lifts his other hand to trap a free strand of her hair in his fingertips. She has a vivid image of what it might feel like if he were to run his whole hand through her hair and has to stifle the nervous laughter she feels in her chest. 

_Fuck it._ She goes for it, sliding her free hand around him to give him a hug. He’s frozen and she’s thinking she’s screwed up when his arm comes to rest across her back and pulls her close. With their hands still connected, it probably looks like they could be dancing, she thinks. This isn’t like embracing a stranger for the first time, this is warm, familiar, welcome. Almost a homecoming. 

Being this close to him, memories start to come back again. Thankfully, good ones this time. Moments of feeling safe, the feeling of camaraderie, implicit trust based on genuine friendship. Just from the memories returned, she knows how incredibly important he is to her, and she doesn’t even think she has everything back yet. A funny moment surfaces and she withdraws from his arms to ask:

“I hustled fifty bucks from you playing pool when we first met, didn’t I.”

He lets go and scratches the back of his neck, smiling. It’s one that lights up his face in a way she hasn’t yet seen in person: _success_.

“You did. Then you lifted everyone’s wallets when Brad implied your skill sets wouldn’t be useful. Broke into his desk and left him a post-it-note on his wallet saying ‘ _Wanna bet?_ ’” He chuckles thinking of that moment in their past. 

She smiles when he laughs. Tries not to sober when Brad Vicker’s name pulls up a pang of sadness. She wants to keep this current moment going, for once her past be damned. For the first time wanting to have _new_ memories, not focusing on old ones. 

Ever courteous though, Chris ends the pleasant tension between them by tipping his head towards the door and lifting his eyebrows in a question. “Breakfast?”

“Sure. I’ll be right there.” She watches him go, smiling to herself about feeling like a high schooler watching her crush leave down the halls. 

Bracing her hands on the sink in the bathroom, she laughs at her reflection in the mirror.

_Thirty-four and getting butterflies like a twelve year old? Nice, Jill. Real smooth._

Washing her face and feeling a little less juvenile, she closes the door behind her. In the main room she can hear Claire and Chris talking. Not necessarily intending to eavesdrop but making no effort to make her footfalls heavier, she listens in. 

“So are you going to say something this time or am I going to watch you two dance around each other for another ten years?”

_“Claire!”_

“What? I’m not saying going up and kissing her like some forties movie, just say ‘Hey Jill-’”

“Please stop.” 

“Okay, sorry, sorry, too far. I get it. I’m just, ugh. I don’t know.”

“Now’s not the time, okay? She was gone for so long, I have no idea what really happened under that bastard. I don’t think an amnesiac really wants to hear something like that from some guy she barely knows. It would be unfair to push my feelings on her right now, and manipulative to boot. So no. I’m not going to say anything. I don’t want to assume.”

“I guess those are all good points. I’m just thinking of what you were like when you thought she was dead, the regret. I don’t want you to miss out on this second chance by being afraid.” 

He doesn’t answer for a beat. Claire continues in a softer tone. 

“I’m sorry for being pushy. Really, I am.”

He sighs. “I know you mean well, but it isn’t the right time. Later, when this whole thing is resolved, I’ll get there.”

Claire sounds much older when she replies.

“You never know how much time you have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this far :)  
> I've posted everything I've written now, I hope I can get the next one out in time for Thursday!  
> Edited as always by nicefacepotter


	12. Chapter 12

Jill is quiet at breakfast. Claire fills the silence occasionally and he joins in with her, the joking and bantering being a relieving change from her grilling him on his love life. Jill watches them both, alternating between a searching expression and a small smile when Claire says something particularly funny. It’s a weird trio to have for such a domestic scene but it feels nice: a respite that none of them have had in more than a decade. Under better circumstances this would be a treasured moment, maybe later he’ll look back on this fondly. 

They have a couple of hours to kill before picking up Rebecca and there’s a restless energy born both from inaction and having nothing to do while they wait. Jill folds herself into the corner of the couch again while Claire takes the floor, absentmindedly playing tug-of-war with Calpurnia, lost in thought. He takes the other end of the couch trying not to groan as sore muscles relax against the old cushions. The coffee has not done its job and sleep is circling like crows. 

“So, do you have any clues on how you got all the way here?” Claire bursts the quiet bubble, turning at the waist to see Jill, who looks taken aback.

“No.” Jill hesitates, uncertain. “I think I was in some sort of vehicle; I remember it being dark and cramped but not much else.”

“You were being held in a vehicle?”

“I think I was hiding, actually.” Jill is concentrating hard, a small V of tension creasing her forehead. Chris knows it well, and waits for her nose to scrunch the way it does when she gets frustrated. “I was there for a long time, but that’s pretty much it. I just had a sense of _location_ , like I knew where I was going.”

“Wow, you really P. Sherman’ed your way here, huh.” Claire turns back around and leans her head back. 

“I what?” 

“The fish movie? Nevermind, I saw it on a plane. You probably missed it. Basically- Ow!” Claire swats at Chris’ foot when he lightly taps the back of her head to make her stop. Jill laughs and they both look at her.

“I did see that. The blue fish had memory problems, right?” She smiles wryly. “It fits.” 

When it’s clear neither of the Redfields know what to say, she keeps going.

“I’m getting things back in random order, no idea why.” She shrugs. “Can’t say I think animated movies are what I’m looking for, but at least it’s something.” 

“It’s something.” Claire agrees. Chris nods, failing to fight off a yawn.

He’s just going to lean his head back. _Only a minute,_ one minute of closing his eyes, then he’ll open them and start thinking of a plan. 

-

He wakes with a start, half sitting up. Whatever he was dreaming about is already out of reach, but since his dreams are very one-note, he can guess what it was about. Almost every night for over ten years, when sleep does make its way to him, his brain cycles through only a handful of scenarios: Seeing a tyrant for the first time, Wesker holding Claire by the hair in Antarctica, Jill crashing through that window and taking Wesker with her, Jill screaming with rage and pain as he and Sheva try to remove the device without hurting her.

Out of those, the window at the Spencer Mansion frequents more than the others exponentially. The anger from being tossed around like a rag doll- the sudden impact of the floor- quickly turning to helplessness and horror as the glass explodes and Jill sinks from view clutching tightly to Wesker’s coat. That moment. Hitting the ground, the sound of glass, the last wisp of Jill’s hair. It plays on repeat in his dreams. He could have done better, _should have done better._

He hates this dream, it’s his greatest failure on loop. He had hoped when Jill was found alive they would stop, but they haven’t. Now they’re accompanied by the feeling that if he had just tried harder to find her, she wouldn’t have undergone the horrors of those years of testing and abuse. He can’t ever shake the feeling that all of it, everything, is his fault. 

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sinks back into the couch with a sigh, letting the anxiety and adrenaline fade. When he opens his eyes again they focus on Jill, still at the end of the couch watching him with her arms wrapped around her knees and resting her chin atop them. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s good you did, you needed it. You were dreaming, are you okay?”

“Fine. I don’t remember what it was.” She picks out the lie instantly, her eyes narrowing. He tries to make a joke to move on. “Why, was I talking or something? Hope I didn’t say anything embarrassing.”

“You don’t talk in your sleep.” She says dismissively. “You never have.” 

_Fair enough,_ he doesn’t know whether feeling a little jolt of happiness at her remembering little things about him is appropriate right now but he does. She wants him to give up and explain the lie, but he won’t, so eventually she concedes instead.

“You did drool a little though.” She laughs when he wipes his mouth, embarrassed.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny. Where’s Claire?” When he sits up to look for her, Calpurnia’s ears prick up and she trots over to him with her toy. He takes it from her and squeaking it once tosses it for her to chase. 

“She went to go get Rebecca, left about half an hour ago.”

“Geez, I was asleep that long?”

“Like I said, you needed it.” 

“Hmm.” 

He throws the toy a couple more times before she speaks again.

“Why’d you get a dog?”

“Oh, she failed out of the canine unit so I volunteered to take her. She’s not so good at following commands but she’s smart, and a good friend.” 

“Why Calpurnia? Seems like it’d be a better name for a cat.” When he looks at her baffled, she spells out the letters with her finger.

“Cal- _purr_ \- nia?” His laugh is unexpectedly loud and Jill seems very self-satisfied.

“Wow- ha, yeah.” The joke hits him again and he has to laugh before continuing. “Yeah it would be a good name for a cat.

“It was the name of Julius Caesar's third wife. She was known for being kind and loyal, it seemed like a good fit.” He can feel the back of his neck get red from her staring. 

“It is a good fit. What made you think about it?”

“I- uh, read the play in college.” Why he feels so embarrassed, he doesn’t know. He’s not a secret intellectual or something, but he’s also not stupid, so why should admitting he read Shakespeare in college be a hang up? Maybe he doesn’t want to seem like he’s bragging, or trying too hard? Jill doesn’t pry or seem to care though, just holds out her hand for the toy the next time Calpurnia brings it back to him and throws it herself.

Fifteen minutes later, Jill has won back some of Calpurnia’s trust and Claire is banging at the door. Jill comes to stand warily at the entrance of the kitchen as the other three say their hellos and bring Rebecca’s things in. The two cases she has with her alongside a rolling suitcase are huge and bulky, they bang on the door frame as he pulls them inside and Rebecca looks sheepish.

“Claire said to bring the extensive kits, I’m sorry!”

“Well, I didn’t know that would mean big enough to set up a FEMA tent.” Claire is joking, but it takes a second for Rebecca to pick up on it. 

He claps her on the shoulder and shoots a look over at Claire.

“No worries Beccs, thanks for the help.” Rebecca smiles gratefully at him before her eyes slide over to see behind him and look curiously at Jill. 

“Of course. So,” she sounds nervous, “where should we start?”

-

Rebecca is nothing but gentle- having been treated by her himself in the past, Chris knows this, but he can’t help but feel the need to stand too close as she examines Jill. She’s silent as Rebecca looks her over, having only said a quiet and guarded greeting to the scientist. 

It’s hard to tell what exactly she’s thinking, but the usually impeccable poker face is being betrayed by the tense way she’s holding herself. Her teeth clench as Rebecca’s fingers glide over the needle points in her right arm and she looks like she’s resisting wrenching it away. When Rebecca asks if she can take a blood sample, she pales visibly but after a moment agrees. 

“I’m not trying to pry, but can I get a bit more information about what’s going on?” Rebecca asks after she’s wound the medical tape around Jill’s left elbow. 

“I just read a report on you a couple days ago, none of this was documented. It didn’t even say you’d left.”  
  
Claire turns in the chair she’s sitting in at the table, pulling her headphones down and turning away from her laptop. With the focus of everyone in the room on her, Rebecca needs a second before continuing.

“I thought the document and pictures looked weird-” 

“Pictures?” He doesn’t mean to interrupt her so abruptly, but she keeps talking.

“Yeah, I took one because it didn’t seem right. The whole thing said you were doing so much better and were just resting, I don’t understand-”

“How deep does this go?” Claire cuts her off to ask him, moving to stand behind Rebecca.

“Seems deep enough for a cover up.”

“This is bad, the B.S.A.A. being compromised-” 

“We’ll figure it out. Rebecca, can we see the picture?” She hurries over to her coat hanging by the door.

“Here.” 

Looking at the picture, at first nothing seems wrong other than that the Jill in the picture looks significantly less haggard than the one in front of him. He keeps a passive eye on her as Rebecca continues to look over her, checking her eyes with a small flashlight. 

Upon closer inspection though, the smile on photograph of Jill’s face seems wrong, a smile he’s never once seen before. As he looks even closer, nose almost touching the photo paper the features look wrong, out of place-

“This is a composite.” Passes the photo to Claire when she reaches for it.

“You were right Becca, this isn’t a real photo. Good instincts.”

“Thanks, though I wish none of this was happening.” 

Jill is watching them, and he can tell she’s starting to get freaked out, so he crouches in front of where she sits and holds her hands in his, resting them on her lap.

“It’ll be alright,” he promises, and she squeezes his hands.

“Sorry, but can I look at your shoulder, Jill, the one that was dislocated? I’m sure you did a great job Chris, I just want to be thorough.” Jill looks like she would rather say no but nods anyway, letting go to gingerly pull up the sleep shirt he had lent her. She probably doesn’t need the help. But he assists anyway by helping her pull her left arm from the sleeve without extending it too much. When he goes to turn his back to give her some privacy, she reaches out and grabs his hand.  
  


“It’s fine, I don’t care. Stay.” And how could he say no? He can’t, so he returns to his position in front of her.

“What were the other pictures, if you can remember them.” Claire sets the photo down by her laptop before leaning back on the wall nearest them. 

“There was one of the device wound, it seemed to be healing well but-” She leans around to look at what she can see of it above Jill’s bra. “That was clearly a fake too.”

Rebecca concentrates on Jill’s shoulder, pressing gently and checking the socket’s rotation. Following the line of muscle from deltoid to trapezius with her fingertips, she brushes Jill’s hair out of the way then pauses. 

“What the…” She sets Jill’s arm down to look closely at whatever she’s found. Claire pushes off the wall to get a better look and Jill locks eyes with him; he can see her fighting panic in them.

“What is that?” Claire murmurs. Rebecca shakes her head, mystified.

“Jill, can you feel this?” There’s an odd sound as Rebecca taps her fingernail on something. 

“Not really.” Jill was never much one for crying, but she’s close to it now, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes shut tight and there’s moisture in the lashes. 

_No more,_ that’s what she had said the night before. White hot anger burns through him at the pain and fear she’s experienced.

“That’s enough.” He’s not angry at Claire or Rebecca but his voice still comes out in a low and dangerous tone. 

“There’s more.” Rebecca is moving her hand to spots down Jill’s back, who curves forward into herself further.

“Chris, look at this.” Claire gestures for him to come and see.

“No, that’s enough for now-”

“ _Chris._ ” She’s deadly serious, any trace of her usual good humor gone. He’s only heard her like this when truly upset over something. He grits his teeth and stands, afraid of what’s coming next. 

Up and down Jill’s spine are five sets of metal implants: small, round and evenly measured with a blank center of skin in the middle; they look vaguely reminiscent of metal washers. 

Weirdly, it reminds him of something,

“The suit, the one she was wearing when we found her in back in Kijuju, had a similar pattern on the back.”

“Would they line up to these?” Claire has gone into full detective mode.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’d say it’s a strong possibility.”

“That’s too much of a coincidence.”

“I agree. Rebecca, any ideas?”

“Nothing concrete, there’s not enough infor-”

“Anything, let’s hear it.”

“Well,” she crouches down to get eye level with one of the implants, gently pressing around it, “They’re at an odd angle. I would guess that they’re going directly into the spine. They might be some sort of stabilizer- like pins in a broken bone, but why would they be exposed like this?” 

_A broken spine?_ The fall from the cliff could have caused that, but she would definitely be dead if that were the case. At the time, the B.S.A.A. had been searching for Jill’s body, but she’s here now, alive. 

“ _I died.”_

Jill is trembling, breathing fast with her face in her hands. He waves back Claire and Rebecca to give Jill space. When he tries to pull Jill’s hands away to see her face- to do something, _anything,_ she speaks again in the same low, haunted voice.

“ _I was supposed to die.”_

“What do you mean?” She doesn’t answer but the trembling in her hands is getting worse.

“Jill, look at me, please.” He pulls gently on her wrists and this time she doesn’t resist. Her eyes are too wide and unblinking, the tears she was holding back moments ago have spilled.

“Hey, what did you mean?” He’s trying his best to sooth, stroking his thumbs along her wrists.

“ _The fall was supposed to kill us. Kill us both. We were supposed to_ **_die_ ** _.”_

He was so selfish. He had deluded himself into thinking that by not telling her about the mansion he was helping her, protecting her. It had only been to protect himself, and now both of them are paying for it. She had no warning for the onslaught of the traumatic memory and is on the verge of losing herself again, only this time it’s not just him around- Claire and Rebecca are in the mix now too. 

_Fuck._

Jill’s pupils are rapidly shrinking and dilating, her hands alternating between clenching into a fist and curling into a claw shape. 

“Chris...?” Claire, always ready to lend a hand, inches forward but stops when he shakes his head.

“It’s happening,” Jill whispers to him, trying to warn him even through everything she must be feeling. “I can feel it-”

“I know, but you’re still here, right here.” Cupping her face in both hands, he wipes away the tears with his thumbs. “You’re still right here with me. Still you. Stay with me.”

For one small moment it seems like she’s fought it off, that his words helped her. 

_“I can’t.”_

With a hopeless expression that he knows is now burned into his brain, she sags in his arms before she lunges, body tight as a piano wire, and wraps her hands around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All scheduling is out the window now! Forgive me if there's pauses in updates now but know I'm determined to see this through, I've never written this much in my life and I'm hell bent on completing it.  
> Edited by nicefacepotter
> 
> Thank you as always for reading this far <3


	13. Chapter 13

Jill’s hands shoot out to clench around Chris’ neck and the room explodes with sudden movement and sound. Looping an arm around Rebecca’s waist and hoisting the woman behind her roughly, Claire is yelling for instructions, Calpurnia is barking loudly, and there’s a low unsettling feral noise coming from Jill’s throat.

“-Got it. Dog-” Chris rises to standing, trying to get the height advantage to break Jill’s hold. Claire seems to know what to do before he can get out any more words, catching Calpurnia mid leap and wrestling her into her arms. Running past a frozen Rebecca, she tosses the furious dog into the bathroom and slams the door shut.

_I have to help, there has to be a way to help- I have to do something!_

_Droperidol!_ Diving for her kit, she flips the latches and throws it open, digging through neatly organized materials to get to the rarely used sedative. The noise and chaos behind her fades as she searches for the autoinjector of the right drug. 

_Gotcha!_

“Hold her still!” With a commanding tone she can only really manage in these kinds of situations, she makes her way across the room, holding the injector tightly in her right hand.

Chris and Claire lock eyes over Jill’s head and Claire nods, shifting into a ready stance behind Jill. Chris lets go of Jill’s wrists to bring his hands through the loop made by her arms and extends them up before bringing his elbows down sharply on hers, breaking the hold. Claire is ready behind her, catching her wrists and twisting them high up her back while hooking a foot around Jill’s ankle, using her imbalance to lower her as carefully as possible to the ground. Strangely, once she loses her grip on Chris’ neck, Jill doesn’t struggle, just screeches through clenched teeth. Her eyes are much more lucid as Rebecca depresses the autoinjector into her bicep, seeming almost grateful before she slumps completely into the floor. 

As quickly as the chaos started, it’s abruptly still. Rebecca falls back on her butt with a _thump,_ legs feeling like jelly, while Claire gets up gingerly off of Jill’s prone form and exhales loudly.

“Oh man.” She sounds shaky and smooths her hair away from her face before dropping her hands and shaking the tension out of her arms. “You okay?”

Chris has his back against the wall, sitting with one knee up and rubbing at his neck. He waves off the question.

“Did you see that? Right at the end, she wanted us to stop her. She tried to help.” When Claire huffs in disbelief and exasperation, Rebecca chimes in.

“I agree, I think she was more aware than you described her being before.”

“She also warned us, that was new too. Maybe she can start to fight whatever this is off with some time.” Claire doesn’t seem entirely sold, but she reaches for him and gives him a hand, pulling him up and into a hug. 

He pats her back once before bending down and carefully gathers Jill into his arms. It’s sweet, Rebecca thinks, how tenderly he looks at Jill when she’s not even awake to see it, how gently he touches her.

Claire follows Chris down the hallway when he leaves and Rebecca can just hear,

“So, do you still think we should turn her back in?” Chris doesn’t sound intentionally harsh but the words still have a slight bite to them.

“ _No_ , of course not. But I still think we're in way over our heads.”

-

"Ouch."

"Sorry!"

"It's okay- Beccs, do we really have to do this right now?" Chris looks for all the world just like a bear put out by some annoying small animal as she checks him over.

"Just let me finish, I promise it won't take forever. I read Agent Alomar's reports from back in Kijuju. If this has something to do with the P-thirty condition that means Jill's still strong enough to damage even _you_." 

And truthfully, he does look roughed up. They all may joke about Chris being stupidly Clark-Kent-tough, but he truly is hard to injure. Well, normally. Jill's boosted strength and his lack of will to truly defend himself against her has done quite a number. 

Chris sighs and stops protesting, letting her poke and prod at his neck to make sure nothing is badly damaged or broken. 

"Thanks for humoring me." Despite his rank and the way his accomplishments stack against hers, she's never felt particularly shy or nervous around Chris. Something about the way he always treats her like an equal and the bond they formed through sharing that awful night in the Arklay Manor has made him a true friend. 

"Thank _you_. Really, for everything. It's good to have you here, and not just for the science stuff." He nudges her with an elbow and she can't help but smile. "You were a big help back there and it's good to have a real friend with me. I can always count on you. Oh, I don’t think I ever congratulated you on your doctorate in person, well done Dr. Chambers.” When he gives her a small salute, it isn’t mocking in the slightest. 

She's not about to _cry_ , but she certainly is getting a little misty-eyed. 

"I wish we didn't have to drag you into all this, but really who else could I have called, huh?" He's noticed her getting emotional and is teasing to let her get herself back together. "Come on, how many other _brilliant_ bio-chemists who are _incredible_ first class medics _and_ come with such a record of excellent choices in friends could there possibly be?" 

When she bursts into laughter, he smiles kindly. Then, in a normal but just as sincere voice adds,

"Really, you're the best Rebecca. I can't thank you enough."

"You don't have to. I'll be here anytime you need me."

“I appreciate that.” Leaning his head back, he yawns wide enough for his jaw to crack. 

She’s not sure if he wants to talk to her of all people about it, but she’ll give him an opening just in case. “Seeing Jill this way is kind of scary.” 

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Maybe this was a bad idea, she’s no psychologist and she’s starting to get worried at his silence, until he breaks it. “She was already pretty lethal to start with, people just chose not to see it. Probably could have gone better for some of them if they had.

“But she’s never cruel, would never hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. Even then, she always tries to find a different way. She’s saved more lives than she’ll ever get credit for and that doesn’t matter to her one bit, all she cares about is how to keep helping more. Loyalty, that means a lot to her. She’ll go to any lengths for someone she’s decided is worth it.” He’s looking at his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

“That’s part of what makes this mess so awful. I know her, she wouldn’t care about pain to her own body, but being forced to hurt others and having no choice on what your hands are doing? That’s the ultimate torture for someone like her, I don’t know if she’ll ever find out how to forgive herself.” 

To Rebecca, Jill has always been an enigma of sorts. Aloof, almost cold, funny but in a more distant way than someone like Claire. She was never unkind to Rebecca, just- separate. From all of them really, except Chris. She would joke and talk to all of S.T.A.R.S., but Rebecca always got the feeling that the only one of them that really _knew_ her was him. It’s interesting to compare the image of Jill she has with Chris’, maybe even letting her see Jill more clearly in a way she hadn’t before. 

“She’s a good person.”  
  
“The best.” The smile on his face when he says it isn’t for her, it’s for the unconscious woman in the next room who has completely earned his loyalty in return. 

  
  


-

“What _are_ you?” Frustrated, Rebecca leans away from the microscope and rubs at the imprint the rubber eyepiece has left from her pressing too hard to it. 

“What’s that?” Claire is looking at her, pulling one headphone away from her ear to hear. Calpurnia, now calm, is sitting next to her legs under the table, head on Claire’s lap. Both dog and woman are focused on her.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s nothing. Just having a hard time here.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she taps her fingers on the rickety card table she has all her equipment on, trying to figure out _what_ it is she could be missing. 

“Well, if you need a break, I’m trying to make a timeline. Maybe you can help.”

“Sure, what do you have so far?” She stands and stretches, back popping from sitting hunched. Claire shifts her things on the table and pulls the loose sheet of paper she was writing on to the front and center. Leaning over Claire’s shoulder, she can see Claire’s messy handwriting along a line with the days of the week labeled. 

“So, today- Friday.” She gestures with her hands in what Rebecca can only describe as an ‘Obviously,’ sort of way. “Yesterday Chris got home around ten-thirty AM and Jill was already here.” 

She pauses for a second, maybe waiting for her input? Rebecca doesn’t say anything, so Claire continues.

“By Greyhound, it takes eighteen to nineteen hours to get from the B.S.S.A. facility in Kenosha to here. I’m going to take the liberty of saying that whatever vehicle Jill snuck onto was traveling at relatively the same pace. If she got here around ten, we can estimate that she left the facility around two PM on Wednesday. Do you remember anything weird on that day?”

“That was the day I got the report on Jill, it said it was current.” 

“That’s it? No alerts from other departments or facility wide notes? Maybe not even something big, a spill or something.”

“Sorry no, I don’t think so.” The only thing of note she remembers is Alyssa getting a phone call and being gone for awhile, but Claire’s not looking for an update on her friend. “It was a pretty normal day.”

“Hmmm.” Leaning her chin on her hand, Claire stares at the page as if willing it to write out the answers on its own.

“My lab is pretty isolated, I’m not sure what we would be told. We’re self contained, so we don’t get a ton of information on other departments. Our department head would know though.” 

“Oh, who is it? Maybe I have a contact through them.” Claire drags her laptop over top the other items on the table and Rebecca winces at the chaos. 

“I’m not sure you would, she’s sort of new, and temporary. She’s a contractor through our European branch and is scheduled to go back to her own lab in the next couple of months.”

“That’s weird…” Claire isn’t paying complete attention though, typing quickly and opening up windows on her laptop with the TerraSave logo on them.

“-Wait, why would the B.S.A.A. hire someone they don’t really know or plan to keep?”

“I’m there in kind of a similar capacity so…” 

“I guess you are, still weird though. What’s her name?”

“Dr. Alex Ivanov.” Claire repeats the name slowly as she types it in. 

“ _I-van-ov._ Nothing. Shoot.” Claire sighs loudly. “Well, can’t expect a handwritten journal explaining everything we need to know _every_ time, can we.”

“Ha, not this time.” 

“We’re not back at square one, but we sure didn’t get that far either.” Claire scoots the chair back and both Rebecca and Calpurnia have to dart out of the way. “Oh, sorry. So, can I help with your stuff? I don’t know a ton about bio-chem, but I can be your sounding board. What is that engineer thing? The rubber duck test, or something like that.”

“Sure, we can try that.” Rebecca pulls up a chair next to her and pulls out a clean sheet of paper from Claire’s pile. “I wanted to make a list of things I found on Jill first.”

“Okay, what’ve we got?”

“Well, first off we don’t know how she dislocated her shoulder. As in, if it was done to her on purpose by someone or she somehow did it.” Claire frowns at the thought. “Then there’s the injection sites. They’re recent- most of them at least, and some are from a large gauge needle.”

Making a face _(maybe she’s afraid of needles?)_ , Claire asks. “Okay so what would that mean? What do you use big needles for?”

“Something to do with bone marrow most likely, either extraction or infusion.” 

“Eugh.” 

“Yeah, it’s not good. Then there’s the, hmmm, ‘implants’ I guess is the best descriptor. The skin in and around them is scarred; they don't seem recent, my guess is they were done when Jill was under Wesker and Tricell captivity. Directly into the bone… But why the hollow center? Almost like a channel...” 

Claire snaps her fingers, startling her out of her musings.

“You know what they remind me of?” Rebecca has no idea. “Headphone jacks!”

When Rebecca clearly doesn’t get it, she pulls over her laptop and yanks her headphones out from the side, pointing at the round hole. 

“You know, like a plug.”

“A plug directly into the spine?” Rebecca winces at the idea and another wave of sympathy for Jill hits her. “But for what?”

“A stimulant? If she broke it when she fell, maybe it was to inject something to fix it.”

“Hmm.” Rebecca shakes her head. “That’d be a pretty extreme way to do something that could only take a handful of treatments. There must have been a benefit for the labs, some sort of convenience to it.” 

“There’s bone marrow in the spine. Maybe...?” 

“Oh. That’s an idea. An awful idea, but sounds more on the right track. I remember reading that they were repeatedly infecting Jill when trying to make Uroboros, maybe it was through intraosseous infusion, it’d be a pretty easy and consistent way to introduce it to the body.”

They both sit in silence for a moment, Rebecca thinking about how much pain ten separate points of infusion or extraction would cause. The likelihood of Wesker using anesthesthetic on an Ex-S.T.A.R.S. member seems pretty low, so she can only imagine how badly it must have hurt. 

“Okay, say that’s true; why use her arm to access the marrow now when those already exist?” 

“The implants have heavy scar tissue, they’d be pretty tough to get through now. The points in her arm don’t look very well done, like whoever did it hadn’t had much practice, or just didn’t care.” Claire’s eyebrows pull down in an angry expression eerily similar to Chris’. Rebecca hurries to move the conversation forward before the Redfield temper has a chance to de-rail it.

“There’s something weird in her blood, too. Obviously I could really use a full lab, but I can still get a lot with this setup. I recognize the mutated T-virus cells from when Jill was inoculated, but they’ve been changed somehow. When I isolate just the T-cells they’re being-” she looks for a way to explain that Claire might understand better, “Piggy-backed by something else. Somehow it’s managed to mutate a _second_ time. Or been spliced, but I can’t tell with what. It seems familiar though and that’s the most frustrating part.” 

“From Wesker’s work or newer?”

“I don’t know. If I could get Jill’s full file, it would say. I can try from my laptop here, but I doubt I’ll have access outside of the facility.”

Ten minutes and a ton of error message noises later, Rebecca gives up on the laptop.

“That seems to be a no.” 

“None of my codes are working for sensitive files.” 

“Okay, another dead end. We need more than this to go on.” Claire has her head down on the table and is speaking to the floor. 

“A lot of research gets shared between us, TerraSave and the DSO, maybe you can find something?” 

“What would I be looking for? We don’t have Jill’s file, she’s a B.S.A.A. operative. That’s not our information to have.”

Rebecca groans and digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to push out the beginning of a headache that is forming. 

“I don’t _know._ I’m just trying to think of something.” 

“I know you’re trying. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t doing enough.” Sitting up she looks at Rebecca with such a sincere expression it surprises her.

“You aren’t, I’m just really frustrated with myself. There’s something I’m missing. I can feel it, it’s driving me nuts.” 

Claire stands, stretches and yawns. “Don’t beat yourself up, you’re incredible. Let’s go for a walk, take Nia out and clear our heads, yeah?” When Claire says the word ‘walk,’ Calpurnia jumps out from under the table and beelines for the door. 

“Sure, I’ll go check on Chris and tell him we’re going.” 

Already by the door, leash in hand Claire turns and smiles at her. “Good idea.”

She tries to knock as quietly as possible, but it still feels much too loud. At Chris’ hushed, “Come in,” she cracks the door open and peeks inside. Chris is once again on the floor, leaning back against the bed near Jill. Now conscious, she’s sitting up with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders that she’s tightly holding with both hands. 

It’s very obvious that she’s interrupting but neither seem upset or impatient in any way. Jill makes eye contact and Rebecca feels a little frozen under the ice blue irises.

“Thank you, Rebecca. You stopped me before things got any worse, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh! No need to thank me, it’s all okay, really!” Her face is getting super red, she can feel it and the embarrassment rising. 

“You can take credit sometimes Beccs, it’ll do you some good,” Chris says fondly.

“Haha, okay, sure, I’ll keep that in mind.” Now to disengage with as much dignity as possible. “Claire and I are taking the dog on a walk, we’ll be back soon!”

They both wave goodbye to her and as she closes the door, they’re already back in their own world together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Vague Resident Evil 'Science' time I guess haha  
> If anyone does know bio-chem well I am SO sorry, I tried my best :')  
> Edited by nicefacepotter
> 
> Thank you!


	14. Chapter 14




_It’s been almost a year working almost exclusively with Chris but it hasn’t yet lost its luster. Parker was likeable enough, dedicated, well meaning and passionate about his job. All qualities to want in a partner and she knew he had her back but she would never truly say they were friends-_

_“Jill Valentine doesn’t make friends.” Chris had commented shortly after they had first met._ Now _she realizes it was a joke to try and get her to open up, but at the time she had just found it insulting. Maybe it had stung because she knew she could be closed off and she was already struggling to find her place among the boys club of first the Army, and then S.T.A.R.S., or that she’d been working hard to be Chris Redfield’s friend. Apparently with little success- or so she had thought at the time._

_Quickly though they had learned to reorient themselves, understand the other’s quirks and eventually trust each other with most anything. Adjusting to each other as equal halves in their partnership. She could work with anyone else without issue, Barry, Carlos, Parker- all were people she trusted with her life (somewhat reluctantly at first in Carlos’ case but he turned out more than okay) but it was never the same. She never had to sit and wonder what Chris was about to do next and half the time she would be thinking the same thing. Never for a second doubted his intentions, they were a pair, a unit, a matched set,_ partners. 

_Things were just easier with Chris. They had the same priorities and the time they had spent together since they started makes any other partner pale in comparison._

_When the Oswald Spencer intel comes in, they insist on taking the job. They both feel that they deserve to be the ones to find the Umbrella Corporation’s founder. Sure, maybe it’s for closure but hell if they haven’t earned it. The man needs to answer for a lot of things, and starting the global grab for bioweapons that have completely consumed their lives since they stumbled upon it is one of them._

_When they arrive and the house is a silent, empty husk uptop its lonely cliff, she feels deja vu settle in uncomfortably. This is too similar to stepping into the mansion laboratory for the first time, right down to the layout of the room and the blood on the floor in front of the stairs. There’s an energy that he must feel too, the hairs on her arms raising as she gets goosebumps. They confirm that the bodies are in fact just bodies before they begin to clear the floor, going room to room looking for Spencer or survivors._

_“I’ve read this before.” Chris looks at her questioningly. “This was a journal at the Arklay lab, what-_ why _would this be here?”_

_“Good memory.” She shrugs at his comment, most of that night at the mansion laboratory is stuck with her presumably forever. He notes the date on the journal entry. “Nineteen-ninety-eight? There’s no way that’s a coincidence.” She nods, can feel her face tense into a grimace she can’t seem to soften. This place is a living nightmare- one of her nightmares to be specific. There’s a lot of bad memories that fight to drag her down when she sleeps but the feeling of endless looping hallways with dead teammates’ bodies roaming in them is a frequent and unwelcome guest._

_Chris’ face says he’s right there with her in the memories of that night; they both get night terrors sometimes, so much worse than a simple nightmare- they linger and make it feel as if you were truly dying. On many occasions they’ve had to wake each other out of one, gentle soothing words that can’t dispel the fear completely, but she always feels safer with his hand on her shoulder telling her she’s alright, that he’s here and he understands._

_Maybe some people would think it’s ridiculous to still be afraid of simple T-virus victims with everything else they’ve seen, but they don’t understand how momentous and life altering it was, fallen comrades getting up and having to kill them a second time only to then be betrayed by their commanding officer was bad enough. Witnessing the lack of care for the sanctity of human life, the atrocities these people were willing to commit for money is a whole other bag. They don’t mention it to anyone but each other and the other two remaining S.T.A.R.S., a collective shared nightmare, but between her and Chris there’s never been the need for bravado. In a sick way that night made them who they are, both as people who have now devoted their lives to fighting bio-terrorism, and partners in survival._

_It’s time to put that aside for now but it’s easier said than done, the idea of this being the mansion all over again is sticking her boots to the floor and Chris doesn’t look like he’s doing much better._ Shake it off, we have a job to do. Spencer, we need him. _The goal, keep your eyes on the goal and try to sort out how you feel about it all after. The mantra she’s given herself since Raccoon allowing her to unstick her feet and reach out to him._

_“Let’s keep moving.” He pats the hand she’s laid on his forearm in gratitude then clears his throat._

_“Roger that.”_

_They move on._

_Who would ever choose to make nearly the same house more than once Jill doesn’t know, but it feels like stepping back into eight years ago but with jarring changes._

_“There should be a supply room around this corner- nevermind.” They both look at the blank wall that_ feels _like it should house a door, she can picture it so clearly but it isn’t there. As similar as this place is to the mansion outside of Raccoon City it isn’t the same, she can’t decide if that’s more or less unnerving._

_“It’s like a funhouse. A slightly different version from what we expect.” Chris comments and Jill feels the same, grateful that he’s just as disoriented._

_So much of this place is identical, even the ridiculous tricks and hoops it puts you through to progress. She hasn’t had much opportunity to play piano since all hell erupted and using a skill she’d lovingly cultivated as a child feels just as wrong here as it did in Arklay. The only thing making it tolerable is the small smile that Chris probably doesn’t even realize is there as he watches her play, listening and waiting as the door slowly descends. A rare moment where his laser focus wanes, even for a second. She could tease him about it but it feels nice, almost like a small, minute break from the mission that has them both on edge. Inside the home of the Umbrella Corporation’s founder, she plays not just as a solution to another inane puzzle, she plays for him. If she can’t stand to let this be a connection to her childhood at the very least she can let it connect to him._

_Despite being a near perfect replica, there is at least some new information to be gained. It would be best to read through whatever they can in this place but there’s not enough time, the bodies in the foyer spell trouble and that they weren’t killed with guns but through holes punched into their chests is worse. For now they’ll have to skim the ludicrous amount of rambling writing from a dying old man._

_Jill leafs through one of the handwritten journals. “This one just has some crap about becoming the god of a new world. Psh, good luck.” Snapping it shut, she sighs and replaces it on the shelf. “Got anything?”_

_“Alex- Spencer has a kid?” Chris, notebook in hand, turns to raise an eyebrow at her and hands it over. Her stomach sinks as she reads another, more familiar name._ _  
__  
_

_“Albert. That could be a coincidence, but…” Chris finishes the sentence for her._ _  
__  
_

_“_ _When has our luck ever been that good.”_

_"Never, let's get into that computer.” While she punches in the codes they’ve found, he tries to read more._

_“Jill, it looks like they were adopting a ton of kids. From all over the world, I wonder why?”_

_When she looks at the list it goes on for pages:_

_Jonathan (5)_

_Michael (7)_

_Lily (6)_

_Allison (12)_

_Kieran (4)_

_Satoru (8)_

_Alejandra (8)_

_Stefan (10)_

_Dima (7)_

_Alyssa (4)_

_Kate (13)_ _  
_

_Harrison (11)_

_There’s too much to read, she could guess it’s over three hundred names and various ages._

_“I have no idea, let’s check the files.” As the computer wheezes to life, she raps her fingers on the desk until he clears his throat pointedly._

_“Sorry. Oh, here we go.”_

_Quickly, they get their answers. Project Wesker, a eugenics project designed to make superior humans from already exceptional children. Of however many hundreds of children they've been narrowed down to a list of only thirteen, of which there seems to be only one successful subject._

_Albert Wesker._

_“Great. Well, just confirms more of the same. He’s a crazed power hungry lunatic, now we know he was created by a crazed power hungry lunatic too.”_

_"Do you think the other kids….?" Chris shakes his head firmly, but she doesn't quite believe him. Doesn't put it past Umbrella's creator to be above killing children._

_"We should go." He touches her shoulder as he passes to the door, giving her a chance to gather herself and put the image of a mound of child corpses out of her mind._

_They're quiet as they move through the rest of the manor. Passing through the (thankfully mutant-shark-free) basement, they encounter the poor unfortunate souls who succumbed to their infections and dispatch them quickly enough._

_When they finally make it to the last locked door, there he is. The one and only Albert Wesker. Standing smugly over the body of Lord Spencer, calmly shaking the old man’s blood from his glove. The holes in the bodyguards outside now have a cause of death, somehow Wesker is now strong enough to punch straight through the human rib cage._

_They’ve lost all the potential information from Spencer and that’s a big loss. But at the very least, they can finally finish things with their old employer. Soon though, any confidence she had walking in that they could do anything to him at all is lost as well. Wesker is Matrix fast, seeming to teleport around the room in a disorienting pattern and they’re woefully unprepared for this fight. He disarms her almost instantly and when she pulls her knife- she’s better at close combat -she loses that too. Wesker fights both of them off as if they were children; he seems bored, like he’s playing with them. He has something sardonic to say as per usual and it’s just as infuriating as it ever was. Two of the world’s best combatants being defeated by one superhuman asshole._

_Air is pushed violently out of her lungs as she hits the bookshelf and she fights the panic as her chest spasms, desperately trying to regain her breath. She’s holding back the bile that rose from the blow, sharp and acrid in the back of her throat. Coughing, she makes her way back to her feet, mindful of the glass and holding her stomach when she sees them._

_Framed by the grand windows, they form a sick tableau, a gothic painting of one the worst scenarios she can imagine. Wesker has Chris by the throat, lifting him clear off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all. The closest thing she’s ever seen to a genuine smile is on Wesker’s face as he pulls a hand back and she realizes what’s about to happen before Wesker can even say anything. Her mind loops a single thought:_

_Not him,_

_Not him._

_They can’t fight Wesker, they just can’t. No way to win this. Nothing they can do with guns or knives can even touch him._ _  
__  
_

_No way to win this._

_Not without casualties._

_It doesn’t have to be both of them though, one of them can walk away._

He’ll _walk away from this. Chris will be safe._

_She’s halfway across the room before she can lose her nerve. Not realizing she’s screamed until her throat burns._

_The only way to win was by surprise. She can feel Wesker’s surprise as she crashes into him and locks her wrists. Burying her face into the god-awful coat to shield it from the glass -as if it will matter in a few seconds- she hears Chris yell for her. It hurts. She doesn’t want to leave him, and certainly not like this, but she’s too selfish to be the one that has to live without the other. Refuses to be the one left behind._

_The wind rips the cap off her head and takes her hair tie with it, her heart feels like it’s going to leap out of her chest. She’s scared out of her mind but half of her is content; Chris is safe and it’ll all be worth it to remove this bastard from the planet. Wesker is trying to pry her off of him but she twists herself closer. If she’s going to die, he’s coming with her. The only prayer she has is that it’ll be fast, that she won’t lie at the bottom of this cliff and drown, broken and in pain. If the universe could do her a solid for just this one time, it’s all she wants._

_The universe has its own sick plans for her though, it would seem. Wesker manages to turn them at the last moment and she impacts first. Nothing in her life could compare to this. Nothing could ever explain or voice the pain she feels for only a second as her shoulders hit the rocks. When her back hits, everything neck down is lost. But she’s not dead. Not dead, but might as well be. As she’s beginning to black out, she can see an arm fold over her in a cross chest carry, feel her hair halo out around her as she’s towed in the water to an unknown._

_Not dead. But should be._

_Not dead. But would be better off if she was._

-

_Now_

She's awake now, and after a brief check to see if she can still feel her hands and feet, she opens her eyes. Frankly, she's getting pretty tired of being unconscious but until everything is sorted out, it might continue to be a trend. She's been placed on her side, good shoulder down. The bicep aches slightly from whatever Rebecca injected her with. She can picture Rebecca's worried face so clearly; she'll have to thank her later for her quick thinking. The back of Chris' head is in front of her, dark hair just a little bit messy as it always is. At first she'd secretly thought he messed it up on purpose, going for a devil may care appearance, but she's seen him fight to flatten it down too many times now to know that isn't the case. 

He’s sitting on the floor, back resting against the bed close to her face. She can’t see his so she can’t tell what he’s doing, but he doesn’t seem to be asleep. Keeping guard? Maybe, or just waiting for her. She rolls onto her back to look up at the ceiling to take this moment to evaluate while he still thinks she’s out. 

_Why not tell me about the fall?_ she wonders. It’s a big thing to keep to himself, and a very important piece that she was missing, a blindsiding event to remember so suddenly. If she’d had some warning maybe she wouldn’t have lost it. _He must have his reasons._ Still though, there’s a sense of hurt and slight anger towards his silence. 

He must have noticed she’s woken up, because he asks softly:

“You awake?”

“Yes.”

There’s a long silence and he doesn’t turn, like he doesn’t want to face her.  
  


“What are you thinking?” He asks in an almost whisper.

“That you should have told me.” His shoulders hunch and she can see the muscles there tense. 

“Yeah. I should have.” 

“Why didn’t you?” She’s not trying to sound accusatory but it slips out and his head drops a couple inches as he takes a deep breath. 

“I’m not really sure.” 

“Bullshit.” He still won't look at her, so she sits up and tugs on one of his shoulders to get him to turn around. He does, but struggles to look her in the eyes. Eventually he gives in, letting out a big breath.

“It was selfish. I didn’t want to relive it. And, I guess in some way, you didn’t remember. So I wanted to let you not have to carry those memories for as long as I could.”

She takes that in and mulls it over. It doesn’t in any way forgive it, but she understands why he did it. 

“But they were still mine. My memories, _mine._ You had no right to keep them from me.” Finally, his eyes flick up to meet hers. 

“You’re right. I’m so sorry. I won’t blame you for being upset with me.” 

“I… I trust you. I do.” Pulling her knees in to hug, she continues. “But this makes me nervous. How do I know you aren’t keeping anything else to yourself? How do I know you’ve actually told me everything?”

He swallows hard and his eyebrows furrow a little. “I guess you can’t know.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute and she pulls up the comforter around her shoulders while she waits. 

“I’ll make you a promise then- if you’ll take it. From now on, I won’t hide anything else.” 

He’s dead serious, no trace of doubt or deceit in his face. As far as she’s remembered, he isn’t one to lie. Even in situations where he probably should have. It’s odd to have the manor memories back, to look him in the face and realize, _I was willing to die for you._ What does that mean for her now? Is he still that important to her?

Before she can get too in depth on that train of thought, there’s a small knock on the door and Rebecca peeks in at Chris’ welcome. She thanks Rebecca and waves her goodbye, preoccupied by the conversation with Chris. She's still a little uncomfortable around the scientist and the odd feeling of extreme anxiety over everything medical is persistent. She feels bad; she knows they’re comrades and that she should trust and be comfortable around her. Hopes that maybe that’ll come back sometime soon.

When it’s just the two of them again and the silence has almost reached the point of awkwardness, she answers his promise.

“I’ll take it. And hold you to it.” His relief is clear on his face. Expression calling back to the earnest twenty something she met for the first time, no trace of the hardened Chris she’s seen before present in this moment. 

“What else am I missing?”

“Uh, well, I’m not exactly sure. What do you want to know?”

She thinks on it and decides, “How’d you find me? What is this from?” gesturing vaguely at her chest and the sores that itch and ache there every time she thinks about them.

His eyebrows lift and he takes a deep breath, settling in for the story. As he recounts it, she can tell how hard he took her “death” and how much hope he still had that she was still out there. 

“I had gotten some intel that there was some trace of you in Africa, there was already talk of a mission in Kijuju close to where the intel said you would be. It seemed the most likely place to get some answers so I volunteered. We were lead on a stupid as hell chase by Irving, leading to us disobeying orders because I’d seen your picture on his phone. I had to find you. We caught up to Excella and Wesker-” 

She’s only half listening as she lives through the memories along with his narration. Being forced to help that toad Irving out while trying to only follow orders at the bare minimum, trying to hurt the soldiers as little as she was allowed. Hiding her face behind her mask to hide it from Chris once she realized it was him following her. Not only to hide what she was being told to do, what she had become, but also in the hopes that if he didn’t know it was her that he would eventually give up and maybe be spared. 

_“When Chris Redfield arrives, you will restrain him until I give you the signal to stop. You will stop at nothing to succeed in this and if I give you the signal, you_ will _kill him and his partner if you can manage it. No finding a loophole in this one, my dear. You will do everything in your power to incapacitate them.”_

_If she could cry she would, and a stubborn tear makes it way down her cheek despite the limitations she has at the moment. All she wants to do is fall to her knees and sob, tell them no, she won’t do this. Kill him and Excella both if she could, but she knows she can’t, has tried enough times in these past few years of hell to know it would be a useless attempt._

_Wesker tuts and wipes the tear away with a gloved hand, patting her cheek mockingly then reaches up to pull the mask back down over her face and her hood back up._

_“No time for tears. We have to get ready for the big show. Ready for the big reveal.”_

_So she waits for her cue, nothing else she can do but be a bystander in her own body. Trapped in her mind to watch her hands hurt Chris and his new partner, feel how overwhelming her new strength and speed are to them. Wesker lets them try and fight her before an accidentally well aimed bullet hits the beak of her mask and rips it from her face. She hears the quiet snap of his fingers and retreats to his side as told while he gloats to Chris._

_She tries to keep her eyes down; she doesn’t want to see his face when the recognition hits. But at his small, incredulous, even_ hopeful _\- “Jill?” she can’t help but look at him, can’t believe the borderline joy she sees in his face before it drops back into focusing on the situation at hand. Her heart cracks a little more each time he entreats her to stop, that it’s_ him _, as if she doesn’t recognize him. She can’t even tell him she’s here, that she knows he’s here and that she’s sorry. Can’t even make an expression that gives it away: stone faced not by her own choice. It’s worse because she would give anything to not have to witness this, his destruction at her hands, but part of her wishes he would win and kill her. Put her out of this misery and save himself from her._

_Of course, he won’t though. He blocks her frustrated blows instead of hitting back, doing anything he can not to hurt her. She would scream if she could. Beg him to save himself, not her. Unfortunately, she lands a well timed kick to his partner and incapacitates her for just enough time to get Chris in a hold she knows he cannot break. His hand is desperately scrabbling at her knee, trying to remove it from his windpipe, and the idiot is still trying to call out to her. Wasting what air he has left._

_Twisting his arm until it’s about to snap, she watches his face. If she has to do this she won’t shy away from it. Take the full blame and shoulder the whole of the guilt, keep this memory of the horror she’s inflicted. She won’t be a coward and look away as much as she wants to. Wesker gives her the cue and she leans down harder. The mental pain she feels is so loud, all she can hear is the blood pounding louder and louder in her ears when she feels it-_

_A hint, a flicker. The p-thirty is wearing off just in the knick of time- wearing off or she’s able to fight it better than she thought. The second she has her hands and feet back, she lets go and stumbles away from him. It’s not enough to stop the pain in her head, but she at least has her voice again to say_ no. 

_It’s enough time for Chris to get back to his feet, and that’s all she can hope for as Wesker brandishes the fucking button at her, one last taunt thrown their way before he hits it. The device on her chest quietly clicks and she can feel the drug rush deep into her chest with an excruciating icy chill that worms through muscles into arteries and throughout her body. With the last seconds she has in control of her hands, she rips the suit open enough for them to see; if they know it’s there, they’ll hopefully know how to stop her._

_They do, and it’s more than she could ever dare to dream. Years of hoping someone would find her warring with wishing she could just die. Die, rather than watch them use her blood for their sick project. Die, rather than have them turn her into a helpless weapon and send her off to kill people._

_Chris winces almost imperceptibly every time they have to throw her to the ground. She wishes she could help by staying still, but the orders she still has and the pain when they tug at the device is so blinding she can’t help but struggle._

_When it does slide free from her flesh it’s the weirdest and worst sensation. It hurts, yes. But the sensation of the tubes sliding free from where they were embedded in her body leave behind a slithering feeling of emptiness in their wake. It’s an unsettling creepy feeling-_

“You still here?” She blinks and realizes she was staring at nothing at all, completely checked out while reliving everything. Now, she’s looking right into his eyes while he holds her face, hands calloused but a welcome distraction from thinking too hard about everything. “Still with me?” 

“Yeah, I’m still me.” She pulls her face away and pushes his hands down. 

“Where’d you go?” 

“Just… Remembering things from my end.” Remembers the way he held her close with both hands- protective, like if he didn’t she’d disappear. His reluctance to leave despite the stakes. 

“Hey, actually.” She drops her voice to imitate him. “‘Well yeah, but.’ What the hell was that? Whole world at stake and that’s what you have to say?” He starts, then looks embarrassed, the back of his neck rapidly turning red along with the tips of his ears. 

“Really not my finest moment. I’ll own up to that one.” When she quirks an eyebrow at him, his face somehow gets redder.

“Okay, it was pretty bad. I know, I know. I was being pretty blind.” 

She relents and cuts him some slack. “I get it.”

“We did it though, we finally got him. For good this time. I’m not sure if you remember but-”

“Wesker is dead.” She says with sheer relief. The fear around the man and the things he’s done may linger, but for the first time she feels free of him. 

“Yeah.” His smile mirrors hers, co-conspirators in enjoying that somehow they’ve made it and the seemingly invincible Albert Wesker has not. 

The silence that falls now is far from awkward, just a lull in the conversation. Companionable. Eventually they hear Claire and Rebecca come back. Claire (presumably, Rebecca is overly polite while Claire is familiar with Chris’ house and clearly cares less) bangs around the front rooms, doing who knows what. 

They sit there for ten or so minutes anyways, enjoying the relative peace in their space before Chris groans and gets to his feet. 

“We should probably go see what they’ve been up to.” She nods and follows him out.

On the table in Rebecca’s neat handwriting is a list of everything she’s found on Jill. The list is intimidatingly long, but she’s drawn to it with morbid curiosity.

** _Jill Valentine_ **

_-Injection sites (Potential blood marrow extraction/infusion point, recent)_

_-Mild laryngeal trauma (Potentially from intubation, recent)_

_-Spinal implants (Spinal support from possible past injury, potential blood marrow -extraction/infusion point, past)_

_-Necrotic wound on chest (Scabs show signs of necrotic tissue, impeding healing, current)_

_-Dislocated shoulder (Reset, recent)_

_-Dog bite (Recent)_

_-Cracked fingernails (x2, recent)_

_-Various minor bruising (Recent)_

_-Dehydrated_

_-Malnourished_

Running her finger down the page, she tries to process it all. It’s… a lot. She feels like shit but having it all laid out like this makes it harder to ignore than it has been. If she had found this list with someone else’s name at the top, she’d feel pity and concern for them; it’s detailing someone who’s been through an tremendous amount of abuse, and it’s difficult to connect that to her own self. She covers the list with her palm for a second to hide it, then pulls it away to move further into the room. Chris is watching her from where he’s resting a hip against the doorway to the kitchen, giving her space. Calpurnia is sitting on his feet, as close to him as she can get to keep guard , surveying the scene with her owner.

In the tiny dining room, Claire leans on the back of Rebecca’s chair while they’re both focused on her laptop. A webcam has been attached that Claire continually reaches over to adjust until Rebecca stops her quietly with a hand on her wrist. They’re faced away from Jill and there’s a barely audible voice coming from the tinny speakers that she can’t make out, but whoever it is, they have the other two women engrossed in conversation. A lot of medical terms are being thrown around, and it takes a second to realize they’re discussing her. 

“I’m not sure you should be breaking into her office. It’s risky,” Rebecca says anxiously as Jill drifts closer.

“She volunteered,” Claire comments and Rebecca shoots her an exasperated look. “She can make her own choices.”

“It’ll be okay... Ivanov … out right now.” There doesn’t seem to be a steady connection it’s cutting in and out. Rebecca chews on her fingernail, clearly a stress habit. 

“ _Please_ be careful, Alyssa.” 

“Got the file… send it soon…” Jill joins them at the laptop, right as the figure on screen seems to make eye contact with her, and Jill is startled before she realizes that she must be looking at something behind the camera. “Have to go!” the figure says. While Jill is still trying to make out the blurry pixels and get a better look at her, the feed goes black, leaving a charged atmospheric silence behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute I'm so sorry. Here, the longest chapter so far as penance!  
> Edited by nicefacepotter
> 
> If you have spotify here's my playlist for Jill/Chris if anyone wants it :) It's chronological and better if not shuffled!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/56sCvulOvnYcFrqtyW7aav?si=s9ENcColQkujanQxiXHxYQ

**Author's Note:**

> Shows up to a fandom 10 years late with fanfic.  
> This is my first time writing something with the intention to post!  
> Beta read and edited by nicefacepotter on here


End file.
